


Introducing the Lovely Miss Quinn

by Sharzdah



Series: McKinley Records [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Complete, Drug Addiction, F/M, Fame, Non-Linear Narrative, Ode to 1960's music, Recreational Drug Use, Show Business, Singer Quinn, The Cheerios, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, biography, girl groups, music business, price of fame, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:30:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15666975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharzdah/pseuds/Sharzdah
Summary: America's Sweetheart. The Princess of McKinley Records. The Press Darling. The future Mrs. Finn Hudson. This is the story of the rise and fall of the Quinn Fabray, the "star" of the Cheerios. The one who seemed to have it all.





	1. Introducing the Lovely Miss Quinn: America's Sweetheart of Music

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Copywrite infringement is not intended.
> 
> Author's note: this is a repost of a story I did some months back. I found myself stuck, and after realizing that I had made some glaring errors, I decided to just reboot the entire thing.
> 
> Warning: mature, at times, disturbing content, language and mentions of various forms of abuse (sexual assault and drug use). Also, I've graduated from the Google School of 1960's History. Work is currently un-beta'd.

_**Introducing the Lovely Miss Quinn: America's Sweetheart of Music** _

She stared at the headline, mouth agape.

_The Lovely Miss Quinn._

_America's Sweetheart of Music._

Her, Quinn Fabray.

 _America's Sweetheart_ —

It was the most beautiful title she had ever seen.

 _Goodness_.

The two-column article was written in the summer of 1962, three years since she formally began her music career, and she could not believe that her hard-earned luck had finally arrived.

She had noticed the article by accident. The paper had been given to her earlier in the morning by the doorman as she walked out of her Manhattan apartment building, rushing to get to a photo shoot on time.

"Pour vous, madamoiselle," the doorman had said, handing the paper to her. She didn't know if the man had known about her article at the time but based on the smile he had on his face, wider than usual, she could now assume that he had.

She had only accepted the paper to be polite. The doorman was an older man with a personality so sweet that she could never be annoyed with him. Her relationship had been decent enough with the doorman that several months back, she had managed to convince him to speak to her in his native French. From that day on, the doorman had and Quinn, trying desperately to learn the language of love, could not be more appreciative.

She had thanked the doorman, gave him an extra tip.

The doorman smiled and wished her a great day.

She had fully intended to toss the paper once she was out of sight. She had no desire to read about the latest Soviet-America drama or the space race—but in the end, she hadn't. She couldn't. Right at the moment she was about to approach the garage can, she caught sight of the front bottom page. She saw  _it_.

Quinn. Her name. In her opinion, a boring one— but the printed word captured her attention only because there was a chance, albeit, a slim one, that the "Quinn" the press was referencing referred to  _her_.

And, indeed, it was about her. Upon realization, she had stopped in her tracks, holding her breath, wide-eyed as she skimmed the column. That story. That article.

It was about her!

She had noticed a picture of her wrapped around the words. It was a lovely photo, captured a couple of months ago during a quick photo-op outside of a local venue. While Rachel Berry and Brittany Pierce signed autographs, Quinn had taken upon herself to face the salivating press and gave them what they had wanted. A bright smile. Her green eyes, although printed as black, were sparkling. Her blonde hair, loosely curled at her shoulders, impeccably in place...

She looked beautiful.

Her hectic morning had suddenly brightened.

She read the whole article again inside the cab, on the way to the studio out in lower Manhattan. Two hundred words of nothing but praise for the member of the Cheerios—her beauty, her talent, her smile, her personality. The words placed her in the center of attention. The natural crowd-attracter and pleaser. The woman who could walk across the stage with an aura of glamorous light around her.

The article talked about her, Quinn Fabray, as if she was the leader singer of the most popular bubblegum pop girl-group in the country, the Cheerios.

But she wasn't.

 _Your official place on the Cheerios doesn't matter_ , Sanford Ryerson, the Cheerios' unofficial founder and Sue Sylvester, the group's road manager, had insisted too many times. Rachel Berry might be the lead singer, but Quinn was the true star. Her name was more recognizable than Rachel's to the point that most people considered her to be the face of McKinley Records' most profitable group, not Rachel.

_Quinn Fabray: America's Sweetheart._

_Your role will soon change_ , Sanford had also vowed. It wouldn't be long before the press and the fans would clamor for Quinn to sing lead, and only lead. They would clamor so loudly that Billy Johnson, McKinley's president, would have no choice but to make the change.

Although Sanford and Sue's words were welcoming, Quinn refused to bet on them.

When she showed her bandmates the article, the young women had varying reactions, but they did try to mask the differences. Brittany, as expected, was ecstatic. She drew Quinn into a tight hug and congratulated her on finally making it.

Rachel, on the other hand, only glanced at the headline and let out a sigh. She didn't bother to read the article but did end up congratulating Quinn. She forced a smile and advised Quinn to show it to Billy, Sanford and Sue.

Rachel's reaction laid a major blow to Quinn's seemingly limitless joy. At least, temporarily. Quinn had wanted her bandmate to be happy for her because although the two women had their differences and their issues, they were still considered acquaintances and friendly rivals. But she couldn't let Rachel's attitude dampen her day. Brittany had been right; this was a sign that Quinn had finally made it. She was now a star. She was a household name, and she would go down in history.

She had worked her behind off to get to this point.

To get to this point, she had trekked all the way from Ohio to New York with only ten dollars to her name. To get to this point, she had sacrificed her sleep, her health (although not visibly) and her relationships. To get to this point, she had to do  _things_.

It was about damn time.

She was now a rising star. In no time, Quinn fully expected her and the Cheerios to win countless Grammy's, dominate the charts for the next twenty years, including on the Billboard Hot 100. She and the Cheerios would forever be McKinley Records' most successful girl-group—she could just  _see_ it.

It was about damn time.

"I can't explain how happy I am," Quinn said, gushing, the following week over a couple of drinks with Finn Hudson, the front man of New Directions and her employer-approved lover. He was a handsome man, only a couple of years older than her, with a stocky, yet attractive build and ambition just as strong as Quinn's. He wasn't her type, for the most part, but there was just something about his thick Jersey accent that got her going (a fact that Rachel couldn't relate to, although was absolutely crazy over the man— but that was a story for another chapter).

"I'm happy for ya, babe."

Quinn grinned. She grinned throughout the night as she finished her drinks and accompanied Rocky to the dance floor of an Atlantic City nightclub.

She was just so happy.

She was officially famous!

Happiness, Quinn would soon later be told by her shrink, had no correlation with money fame. She valued Dr. Figgins' opinion over most others, but she couldn't agree with him. And she never would.

Fame made her happy because it made her  _important_. It made people notice her. Adore.  _Love_ her. Fame had transformed Quinn from a country girl from a small Midwestern city to a musical darling.

Quinn soon framed the article and hung it on her bedroom wall, right where she could see it when she went to bed and woke up the next day. Hanging next to Quinn's mahogany dresser, it would serve as a constant reminder of Quinn's importance in the music world. To McKinley Records. To the Cheerios.

_To herself._

From that day on, the article would remain hung on Quinn's wall, only to come back down in few years later. Its final resting place would be under its owner's cold hands. It had served as her motivation in life, and it would continue to do so in death.


	2. Beginnings

 

The story of America's Sweetheart began on August 1, 1938 in a small Ohio town, the right on the border with Indiana. Quinn Lucy Fabray was the third child of the family, and the second daughter, and to Quinn, the only one who dared to make a name for herself. She was the only one who managed to leave the Midwest and never comeback. She was the only one who became a household name in not only America, but around the world.

She was also the only one who would become infamous for years to come.

Quinn's father, Russell Fabray, was an accountant-turned-corn farmer. He had studied to become an accountant back in the twenties, and before he knew it, he was soon working at a small firm in Indianapolis. But then October 29, 1929 happened, and his career collapsed soon after. Although it had pained him to do so, Russell had no choice but to return to Iowa and find a way to survive there. He would rather be broke at home with his family and lifelong friends, then be broke in a city full of strangers.

The 1930's was rough, but the small community managed to hold it together.

Being that the town wouldn't truly bounce back until 1942, Russell honestly hadn't wanted his wife to be pregnant with Quinn. He simply couldn't afford another child; he had two other children and a wife to worry about. But despite his personal reservations, Russell would never allow Judy to have an abortion. He finally accepted his fate, and he would never become truly close to his daughter. After all, Quinn wasn't the first child, and she wasn't another boy. There was only so much support she could give the family.

Quinn's mother, Judy Fabray, nee Foster, in the 20's, was considered the closest thing to a flapper the town had ever seen. She had been one of the first girls to cut her hair short to a bob, raise her hemline by several inches, and smoke cigarettes (but not alcohol. The town would remain faithfully dry until the day after Pearl Harbor in '41). She had won a couple of pageants in her youth and was crowned prom queen. She didn't think of herself as a country girl; she loved the city and dreamed about living in one where she could host parties and show up at the most exclusive events.

Judy had dreams, many dreams, including starring in silent films, but she was a very practical woman. She married her husband, a man ten years her senior, after only two months of knowing him out of convenience and had her first child in the following year. She was a homemaker and a mother, and she was content with that—or so she claimed.

She loved her husband and her children. Most of the time. There were times Judy found herself wishing she had another life. She would constantly remind her children, especially her daughters, to make sure that they married well and wisely, and find a hobby.

Like her mother, Quinn was a social butterfly, charming and generally an average student outside of art-related subjects. She was always singing, and dancing, and always vying to have a wonderful time. She had many friends, though they primarily served as acquaintances. She attended every party she would get into with hopes of finding more influential friends, and perhaps a future happy—just to make her folks happy.

It was to no one's surprise that Quinn was popular with the boys, but she managed to maintain a pretty good reputation. With only two boyfriends in her teen years (without a pregnancy), there was not much people could say.

Quinn's first boyfriend was John Paterson, a local man who didn't live too far from the Fabray farm. He was nineteen and she was fourteen. His friend was friends with Mr. Fabray since childhood, and the two families would spend many holidays together. Quinn went out with John because he was an available, decent-looking guy with a car, and a great kisser.

It didn't last. John joined the army a couple of months after and before Quinn knew it, he was shipped off to Korea.

Quinn's second boyfriend was Jimmy Atkins, who was closer to her age. His father owned the town's general store, and had a terrific smile, a movie star smile, and he knew it. He once dreamed of heading out west to Hollywood, but it was quickly shot down the moment his old man died in an automobile accident. He was the only on, and from that moment on, was the man of the house.

Jimmy asked Quinn out on a date in the summer of 1955, just two days shy of Quinn's seventeenth birthday. She agreed only to get out of town for the afternoon. She stuck with him afterwards because he was a safe option. Quinn liked Jimmy, but she didn't love him. That was a fact that her parents, who considered Jimmy as a member of their family, wouldn't accept. Following Quinn's high school graduation, Mr. and Mrs. Fabray constantly bombarded their daughter about marriages, babies and wedding dates?

_Wedding dates_?

Quinn couldn't help but scoff at the thought. She wasn't engaged, and if she was, it would certainly not be to Jimmy—she did tell her parents such numerous times, but no one took her words seriously.

Russell brushed off his daughter's concerns and maintained that one day, she would come to her senses and lead an honest life. Judy insisted that Quinn wanted to die a spinster, a broke, miserable spinster with no one to take care of her once she reached old age.

Quinn thought they were both exaggerating. Of course, she would love to get married one day, but only to a much more dapper guy, a city man with a lot of dough. A city man who might be so busy that he wouldn't have time to boss Quinn around, unlike her father. She wanted to be a socialite, just like her mother could have been if she only had gathered enough nerve to move to Chicago or Indianapolis in her younger days.

* * *

For the next two years, Quinn's life was at a standstill. She helped Judy around the house. She worked on the farm. She worked in the General Store as a cashier. She taught dance and singing classes to the local girls. She attended the towns' biggest events and parties, but that was it. Nothing exciting was happening in her life. Jimmy had accepted that Quinn would never be his wife, so nothing remarkable happened in that relationship.

Maybe her mother had been right. Maybe Quinn would die a bitter, motherless spinster.

Quinn simply didn't know what to do with her life. She couldn't go to college; she didn't have the grades or the money for that. Maybe she had no choice but to convince Vernon that his beliefs had been all wrong and she would love to marry him. That seemed like her best bet right now; all of her siblings were doing something with their lives. She ought to do the same.

And then she saw it. The show that would change her life, for better or for worse: _American Bandstand_. The show featured Top 40 musical acts singing their hit songs with teenagers, always dressed in the most fashionable attire, enthusiastically dancing along with wide smiles.

It happened in March of 1959. Quinn was spending the week at her sister's in Toledo, Ohio to help her around the house and with her new niece. She caught sight of the show for the first time on television while sweeping the family room floor. She watched in amazement as Dick Clark did his introductions and the guest for the day, Bobby Darin, sang his hit song, _Dream Lover_.

She was completely entranced with not only the show, but also the thought of being on _that very stage_. Singing a number one hit, behind a bunch of teenagers, to a live audience and to the rest of America.

The moment Bobby sauntered off the stage, it was decided: Quinn Fabray was going to become a singer. _She could do it_. After all, she had a nice voice and knew her way around the stage. She had been singing in her church's choir every single Sunday and holiday since she was six years old. She had participated in many talent shows, winning numerous awards. She had even sung at a high school friend's wedding reception—the stage had and would never scare her. The audience had and would never scare her.

And to top it off, she was attractive, and she knew it. At 5'6", with bright greenish-hazel eyes, natural way blonde hair, a decent-enough shape and sense of style, some townspeople thought she could be a fashion model. Or maybe even a film star.

Quinn could pull it off. She just needed the opportunity, the determination, and to get the hell out of her small, unremarkable town.

At first, she considered heading down to Cleveland and Memphis or east to Chicago, but there was just something about New York City that tugged on her heartstrings. It was America's largest city. The Big Apple. The City that Never Sleeps. If she could make it there, she could make it _anywhere_. Even Hollywood.

* * *

In July, Quinn told her mother the plan. Unsurprisingly, Judy considered Quinn's plans as childish. She knew her daughter was the town's show-stopper, but that didn't mean the young woman could last a new in _that_ city. The largest city Quinn had ever been to had been Indianapolis, and compared to New York, that place was a village.

"You oughta stay right here," Judy advised in a stern voice as she carried on knitting a blanket for her new grandson. "Get married, have some babies. Live a good, respectable life."

Quinn resisted rolling her eyes. "I ain't stayin' this godforsaken town."

"Quinn Lucy Fabray, don't you dare talk about this town like that!" Judy chided, so enraged that she almost dropped her yarn and needle. "There's nothin' wrong with this town. It's your home, and damn it, it should always be your home."

"Why should it always be my home?" Quinn practically whined. "Look at Frannie. She's out in Toledo—"

"There's a difference, and you know it, young lady," Judy contested, sucking her teeth as she angry stitched one end of the blanket. "You oughta stay right here," she repeated. "You oughta think with your mind and not your heart, Quinn."

"I can make it in New York just fine, Mama," Quinn insisted, standing up tall. No matter what her folks thought, she refused to waste her talents on her small town. She wanted to be in New York; she belonged in New York, and damn it, she would become famous in New York.

In the end, Judy couldn't convince Quinn to stay.

Russell couldn't either; he never had a chance. By the time he could something about it, he had just got off his train from Nebraska, and Quinn was already on the train heading to Chicago, and from there, New York.

The only person who seemed relatively okay with Quinn chasing her dream was Jimmy. Although he wanted Quinn to stay behind, he knew the farmer-wife life was not for his girl. Quinn appreciated his kind words and made sure to see him right before she boarded the train three weeks later.

"I'll write to you when I get there," Quinn promised, standing up her on toes to give Vernon a passionate kiss. The train had just pulled up to the station.

"I'll wait for you," Jimmy whispered against her lips.

Quinn stepped down and smiled. She allowed Jimmy to pick up her suitcase and walk her to the train entrance.

"I'll write to you," she repeated as she stepped onto the train.

* * *

She never did get around to writing that letter.

Quinn would never see and hear from Jimmy again. She would find out a year later that the man had put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Years later, Quinn would manage to convince herself that not keeping in touch with her lover was an honest, regrettable and forgettable mistake. She should have sent him a letter or even a damn telegram. She should have at least spoken to him once when she phoned her parents; the man didn't live far away; her mother could fetch him without dropping the call.

Although invited to the funeral, Quinn couldn't attend the event; she was traveling around Europe for her first European tour. As a kind gesture, while in Paris, Quinn sent Mrs. Atkins a bouquet of fresh flowers and a postcard with a heartfelt apology written on the back of it.

She would never speak to that woman again.

* * *

Retrospectively, Quinn should have planned her great "fame plan" more thoroughly.

She had never been to New York. She didn't know what to exactly expect under the bright lights of Manhattan. She wasn't ready to see all of those people, from all walks of life and colors—after all, everyone in her small town were of the same background.

She didn't have connections. She didn't have a place to stay. She didn't have much money or much of a plan. _Smart thinking_ , she grumbled as she walked off the train at Penn Station in August with only twenty dollars to her name and a name: William Johnson.

That was the name provided to her by a kind seat-mate during the ride from Chicago to New York. The man, a former vaudeville star-turned-small-time writer, had mentioned Johnson during a conversation about show business. According to him, he had only mentioned William because he had known people who had worked with him. Johnson was a shrewd business man, everyone executive in show business was, but he knew the business at the back of his hand. He ran one of the more stable record labels on the East Coast; if Quinn wanted to take a risk, she ought to do it with him.

Quinn thought she should give it a try. After spending the night at Penn Station (and almost getting kicked out by the police), she found a place to freshen up and temporary store her suitcase and headed straight to see Mr. William Johnson.

It was honestly the only plan she could go with. Maybe with her luck, she would get signed by McKinley Records, and never have to find a place to stay or freshen up, by herself, ever again.

She found the building, after getting lost for over two hours. Thanks to her lack of understanding of New York's subway system, she found her Brooklyn and in Harlem instead of midtown Manhattan. She eventually just opted to fetching a cab.

When she stepped out of the cab and onto the curb, she looked up at the skyscraper with her mouth open. She had never seen a building so large and _tall_. After taking a couple of breaths, she finally gathered enough nerves to go on her way.

The moment Quinn walked inside the building, she couldn't help but look around in awe. There were people moving rapidly around in their sharp suits and dresses. No one paid Quinn much mind, but the young woman wasn't offended. At this point, she was a nobody, of course, they wouldn't notice her.

She walked further inside, with her head up high. Okay, so she might be a country girl, but it didn't mean she had to act like one. She had to walk around as she belonged in this building, like she wasn't completely overwhelmed by the building and its people. Like she wasn't a tourist.

Goodness, it seemed that the Hollywood pictures got it right. New York was grand. New York was beautiful, and Quinn was going to be a part of it.

"Miss, may I help you?"

Quinn snapped out of her daydream and turned around, facing the woman behind a desk, a receptionist who looked just as annoyed as she sounded. She profusely apologized; the receptionist might appear young but intimidating.

The receptionist didn't reply, instead she motioned Quinn to approach her and stopped the newcomer within a few feet. Upon loudly clearing her throat, she asked again, "May I please help you?"

"Oh, yes. Good afternoon," Quinn brightly said, nodding. She cursed at her strong country accent; she thought she could pull off a more neutral accent, like those actresses in the pictures. She gave the receptionist her best smile.

She knew the importance of first impression. That was why she made sure to dress her best. She had the most expensive dress in her possession: a sleeveless pastel yellow dress with white flowers along the hem of her full skirt that fell slight below the knee. She had her best-looking costume pearls draped along her neck, matched with small silver studs. Her hair was out, loosely-curled at her shoulders—this would be her trademark look.

"Good afternoon," the receptionist replied, disinterested.

"I'm here to see Mr. William Johnson of McKinley Records."

The receptionist, with her impeccable make-up and finely manicured nails, was not impressed by the woman in front of her. She took the time to scan Quinn from head to toe before bringing her eyes up to her face. She let out a soft scoff. "You are aware that this is the McKinley Records Building, yes?"

Quinn blinked. "Yes?"

"Huh," the receptionist said, raising both eyebrows. She forced a smile. "Do you have an appointment with Mr. Johnson?"

Quinn bit her lip. Damn it, of course, she would need an appointment. The man was the president of a major record label. _Of course_ , he wouldn't just accept walk-ins. "No, but—"

The receptionist gave Quinn no time to explain. "Mr. Johnson only accepts _scheduled_ appointments. No walk-ins," she said, sounding downright pretentious.

"Do you know how I can get an appointment with him?"

"He's booked until November."

Quinn brought her eyebrows together. "Two months away?"

" _Yes_ ," was the receptionist's curt reply. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Miss?"

"No," Quinn said, understanding that she was not welcomed there. She glanced down at the receptionist's name plate. _Candace Spears_. She would remember that name. Quinn looked up and gave Candace a forced smile. "I thank you for your assistance, _Miss_ _Spears_ ," she said. "I hope you have a wonderful rest of the day."

Two years later, Quinn would be able to convince William Johnson to replace Meredith with a much more agreeable woman. Even as she watched the young woman get dragged out of the office building in hysterics, Quinn had no regrets.

* * *

Quinn felt terrible about the first, less-than-ideal, visit to McKinley Records Building but not dejected. Her time would come, she promised herself days later as she tried to find the cheapest accommodations in the city that wouldn't land her in the morgue.

Her time would come.

And it did.

Two weeks after arriving in New York, living in a crowded hostel, singing on the street for some tips and scoring a low-paying, temporary job as a waitress with sleazy boss and his wandering hands, Quinn managed to score an audition with the great William Johnson.

Details of how this came to be were murky: Carole would later give one version. Noah "Puck" Puckerman, McKinley's head producer, would give another and so would Billy. But there were a few things that were consistent: during a fall night out in a Brooklyn club, Quinn, in her best black cocktail dress and heels, caught the attention of Puck, and the rest was history.

They met. They danced for a while. Puck brought Quinn couple of drinks, nothing too strong, and the duo spent the rest of their time at the club talking. About anything and everything. Bringing up her desire to become a singer was all an accident, Quinn would later swear. It just slipped.

It didn't take long for Puck to make the young woman an offer.

"So, what do you say?" he asked, lighting Quinn's cigarette. They were both sitting at a small table towards the back, surrounded by many, but spied on by none.

Quinn tightened her lips around the cigarette and breathed in, not once removing her eyes from the smirking Puck.

She might be new to this city, but she wasn't stupid. She knew perfectly well what the man was asking for. A little quid pro quo; she could tell by the look in her eyes.

She said yes.

He was handsome enough, and this would be hardly her first time…

Looking back, Quinn would consider that night as a move of pure desperation, no matter how much she ended up liking the producer. She knew her folks would be horrified if they found out, but Quinn couldn't go back to Iowa. She wasn't trying to be a farmer's wife. She loved the bright lights of New York, and she had no plans on leaving it any time soon.

Thankfully, although Puck might be a notorious playboy with a relatively shady background, he was known for always upholding his end of any bargain (that was how he was able to rise up in the ranks so quickly, from being an errand boy to being the head producer). Before Quinn knew it, she had an audition with Billy Johnson the following week.

Her song of choice was Connie Francis' hit song, _Stupid Cupid_.

She would learn that it was the perfect choice for two hours later, Quinn Lucy Fabray became the newest member of KM Records.

Her road to stardom had officially begun.

* * *

Quinn Fabray was signed to McKinley Records as a solo female artist. Billy, obviously, impressed by the young woman's rendition of _Stupid Cupid_ , wanted to transform Quinn into the next female star.

That had been the plan.

Until Puck told her one night that it wasn't.

"Billy wants me to be a part of a girl group?" Quinn asked, making sure she had heard Puck correctly. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, Billy told me earlier," Puck said, pulling the comforters up his chest. He was in bed with Quinn, a frequent visitor to his temporary home in a hotel not far from Times Square. "Apparently, SR gave him the idea."

Quinn raised an eyebrow. "SR?"

"Sanford Ryerson," Puck clarified, and then it dawned on him. "Oh right, I don't think you've ever met the fella."

"No, I haven't."

"He's a road manager," Puck said. From the tone in his voice, Quinn could tell that he wasn't too fond of the man. "He's an interesting fella."

"In a good way or bad way?"

Puck glanced at her, seemingly conflicted. "I guess it depends."

Quinn didn't like the tone behind those words. It was odd hearing them from a man who seemed not to be worried about anyone, not even Billy. This Sanford-guy must be something else, she thought as she shifted aside in the bed to make room for Puck.

"I guess it depends..." Quinn whispered to herself, and then asked, "When will I be told the good news?"

"Later this week," Puck said, into the pillow. "He's gonna have a meeting with you all."

"All?"

"Yeah, you and the other two dames."

Quinn crossed her arms. Right. There had to be more than one person to make a group. "You've met them?"

"Briefly. They seem nice. And surprised, but nice. I'm sure you'll like them. I know it's a change, but there are benefits to being in a group. Yeah, the spotlight won't entirely be on you, but then again, the _spotlight won't be entirely on you_. It's a double-edge sword."

"So, you think I should agree to it?"

"Baby girl, you'd be stupid not to."

Quinn would later learn that Billy had changed his mind about the women who would make up the Cheerios because of one man: Sanford Ryerson. The self-proclaimed king of road managers, and the ultimate talent scout.

He had been the one who made Billy see that the times were changing in popular music in regard to female acts. There was growing demand for all-girl groups singing jolly, bubblegum music that would reflect the times. After all, it was still the fifties and Billy wanted to show the America that most Americans wanted to see: prosperity and good feelings.

(Billy Johnson would forever be a "big picture" man. Issues concerning minorities and the disenfranchised would always be considered minor. He wanted to portray the beauty of the country, without any blemishes).


	3. The Cheerios

The day Billy Johnson officially declared the creation of a new girl group was the day Quinn formally met Brittany Pierce and Rachel Berry.

It happened on a chilly fall Monday. Quinn had arrived at McKinley at the ungodly time of 6:30 in the morning, and when she finally had reached the receptionist desk, she had bumped into a young woman she hadn't recognize but would later learn as being Brittany Pierce.

Brittany was born and raised in San Diego. Only a couple of months younger than Quinn, she had been in New York for only two weeks, residing in the same hostel Quinn had. She was a bright soul, always willing to meet others, always welcoming, always talking...

"When I was little, I've always wanted to be in films," Brittany confessed only one hour after introducing herself to Quinn. "But MGM and Paramount only wanted me to play the usual dumb blonde roles. You know what I mean? Become another Jane Mansfield. Another Marilyn."

"Marilyn ain't dumb."

Brittany snorted. "Well, her characters sure are." She shrugged, and added, "For the most part. Anyway, I figured I could be more successful out here, you know? Not everyone's looking for a blonde bombshell."

"True."

"Though, I don't think I'd count as a bombshell," Brittany mused, jokingly patting her small chest. "I don't have the right measurements."

Quinn chuckled as she checked out the woman. She could see Brittany in Hollywood. Although a tad on the thin side, she had the look, had a good head on her shoulders and she was a natural blonde—studios loved that. "I think you look just fine."

Brittany grinned and gave her new friend a wink. "Thank you, ma'am. But seriously, I can't do the 'ditzy blonde' roles…"

That was ironic, but Brittany would be type-casted in that exact "ditzy blonde" role for the rest of her music career. It was a damn shame; Quinn was far more intelligent than most people thought.

Quinn would often wonder if the California girl's ditzy persona was simply a deliberate, unconscious act. Maybe she thought that if no one viewed of her as being cunning or overly ambitious, then Brittany would never be deemed as a threat.

If Brittany had, her plan certainly worked. She was a beautiful, young lady with a heart of gold, Billy would often boast genuinely. Despite her looks, she didn't receive any looks from Sanford; according to the road manager, Brittany was way too sweet. She wouldn't hurt a worm, wouldn't push anyone aside to get to the top. A pacifier. A diplomat. Not his type of woman.

Brittany was also far from naive about the workings of show business. For a short while, her folks worked behind the scenes of film studios; they had seen and heard it all and made sure to give their youngest daughter a few tips about keeping her head above the show business waters. She was the one who told her about McKinley's management and the infamous "casting couch."

"I thought that only happened in Hollywood?" Quinn asked, dumbfounded, but then wasn't once she thought about the idea further. Of course.  _Of fucking course_. She was asking about something that she had been a part of. Goodness, she was no different than those aspiring, wide-eyed, actresses that let their body did more of the talking than their artistic talent.

"Same difference," Brittany nonchalantly replied. She didn't seem too upset about it, just rather resigned. She seemed to understand that, "At times, a hungry, struggling aspiring star gotta do what a hungry, struggling aspiring star gotta do."

"Goodness. But not everyone goes on it," Quinn insisted, more to herself than to Brittany. Maybe what had happened with Puck was different from this casting couch phenomenon. She hadn't been pressured into doing anything; at least, not as much. And plus, Puck was a stud. A talented stud with connections, but a stud nonetheless.

"Enough do," Brittany replied, and then shook her head. "Why am I even talking about this?" she asked, scoffing at the end. "It's far from appropriate. We're waiting for our second audition and I'm talking about this crap."

"It ain't too bad," Quinn insisted, hoping Brittany could talk more. For someone who had just joined McKinley a month ago, she seemed to know all of the label's business. "Hey," she spoke up, probably against her better judgement. "Did you…" Quinn stopped and gulped. That was not a question to ask someone she barely knew.

Brittany was more amused than offended. " _Have I_?" she replied with a half smirk. She shrugged. "Only gave Billy a lil' kiss on the cheek," she admitted. "That's all."

Quinn blinked. A kiss was harmless, but she couldn't believe Brittany would admit it out loud. "That's all?"

"That's all," Brittany insisted. She fished for another cigarette and lit it up. Her cool demeanor appeared to be cracking, but she still held it together. "That's all."

Quinn looked down at the floor and cleared her throat. Brittany seemed to be a better woman than she was. She hadn't jumped into the sack with the producer within a couple of hours of knowing him because of a promise. A promise that held weight, thankfully, but still. "So, I guess you're one of the lucky ones…"

"I'll say." Brittany trailed off and offered Quinn her cigarette. She continued as Quinn took a drag. "Hmm…you heard of Kitty?"

Quinn raised an eyebrow as she handed the cigarette back to Brittany. There was only person she knew with that name. Kitty was a starlet with a decent enough voice who was one half of the so-called country duo, the Gems. The duo was alright, but far too bubblegum.

"Wilde? The singer?"

"Yeah, her," Brittany replied quietly before bringing the cigarette to her lips. She took a sharp intake of breath and handed the stick back to Quinn. "She's his girlfriend."

Quinn blinked. " _Billy's_?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Quinn grimaced. She couldn't imagine being with Billy in such a matter. Yes, he gave her a career and seemed nice enough, but he was just not her type. At all. "But ain't he married?"

Brittany let out a humorless laugh as she crushed the finished cigarette under her heel. "Uh, since when did  _that_  ever matter?"

It usually didn't, Quinn would learn. Of course, Billy would have a piece on the side. He was in the position of power, and his wife probably accepted it. "But ain't she young?"

"She's eighteen. She's woman, so I guess Billy doesn't care."

"Does his... wife?"

"I'd be surprised she didn't know," Brittany said. "She's married to a man in show business. She honestly can't expect him to stay faithful— _Oh, look_! There's Rachel."

Quinn didn't press the topic, but it was obvious that Brittany wanted to switch gears. She looked in Brittany's direction and waved at Rachel who was rushing out of the elevators and down the hall. There was no reason for her to rush, that still had twenty minutes.

"Got any advice for someone like me?" Quinn asked with her eyes still on Rachel. "Given that you know a thing or two about this business."

Brittany glanced at her. "Keep your eyes on the prize," she said. "Just keep your eyes on the prize—Oh, Rachel! You won't believe how happy I am to see your beautiful face!"

* * *

Rachel Berry was the polar opposite to Brittany Pierce. She was kind, but serious with not a bubbly bone in her body. She was also a brunette, far from a blonde bombshell, but she wasn't ugly. In Quinn's mind, she was just a little more than average in the looks-department.

But Quinn would soon realize that her opinions didn't matter, because Rachel walked around McKinley Records Building with such confidence that people were drawn to her. She was dressed to the nine and was not once intimidated by the more seasoned people around her.

Quinn never admit it then, and certainly not years later, but she had always been a bit jealous of Rachel. Rachel knew what she wanted and knew how to get it, obstacles be damned. She was ambitious. She had an amazing voice and could rock any the stage no matter how large the audience, and her movie-star smile. It wasn't too surprising that Rachel would become and remain the lead singer of the Cheerios. Despite Quinn's personal feelings, that woman from Chicago had the  _it_  factor. She was a natural leader and had no issue getting things done.

She was the one who promised both the skeptical Quinn and Brittany that everything would turn out just fine, even if they were at a disadvantage. Initially, each woman had been signed as solo artists and now, the they had to be a cohesive group. It was a bit odd—traditionally, musical groups had already been formed by the time the singers were signed to the record label. It just made things easier; the group would already be established. They would know each member's strength and weakness and role in the group. They would have chemistry, but Quinn, Brittany and Rachel? Before that fateful day, they hadn't been aware of the other woman's existence.

It was a risk, but it was something both Sanford and Billy were ready to take. After all, the ladies were newbies, and as newbies who were hell-bent on surviving in this industry, they would have no problem doing what they were told.

The trio couldn't deny that the men were telling the truth. They had to make this group work.

"I know we may not know each other very well," Rachel said one night at a local diner the day after Billy's announcement, "but we're in this together. We're a group now. Just one cohesive act; if we're gonna make it, we gotta work together."

"I'm okay with that," Brittany said, nudging Quinn with her elbow.

Quinn gave Rachel and Brittany a small smile. Although she wanted nothing more to be a solo singer, she couldn't bring herself to disappoint the two women in front of her. "We oughta get a song that makes us song like one group. Tomorrow, we gotta give Billy a show."

Rachel grinned. "That's the spirit!"

* * *

They decided on the song,  _Lollipop_ , by the Chordettes.

The song wasn't exactly the trio's style, but it demanded a series of harmonious voices. If the trio was going to sell to Billy that could be one cohesive group, they needed to sing together, not rely on one to be the lead singer.

It was a great choice. Billy loved it from the moment the trio opened their mouths, and Sanford Ryerson couldn't stop smirking as the young ladies sung their song.

"It's settled!" Billy declared the moment the song ended, slamming his hand on the desk, all excited. "Sanford, you genius-bastard, you've done it again!"

Sanford tried to feign humility, but that was never a strong point of his. He couldn't hide his smirk or his haughtiness. "Thank you. I think this can work."

"This will work," Billy promised. He motioned the ladies to pull up a chair in front of his desk.

The ladies exchanged looks and did what they were told. For a moment, they had no idea what would happen next. They patiently waited for their boss to speak.

"All three of you were brought here for solo careers, but I think you it would be best if you three were one act—a girl group. People have always loved them. What do you say?"

They said yes.


	4. Him

In the years following Quinn's death, the press, her associates and her biographers would often describe Quinn as someone who would accept any gifts, favors or affection from a man but often without establishing an emotional connection. She used would use them for her own sake, being nothing more than a "maneater," and a "tease."

The labels weren't fair. Quinn's relationship with men had always been complicated; she loved them just as much as she hated them. She considered them important just as much as she deemed them useless. Her problem with the opposite sex had nothing to do with a "lack of affection and connection," or her perceived selfishness, it was just that every relationship with had with them was tumultuous, at best, and in her eyes, the root of most of her problems.

"Those jackasses are only out for themselves," Quinn would often explain to her friends after a few drinks.

But then again, was it really all their fault?

Quinn had never been the one to host a pity party for herself. She was convinced she had known just exactly what she was getting herself into the moment she signed the record deal. The business, such as life, was all about give and take. In the eyes of Billy Johnson and his board of director, she was simply a product, and it was Quinn's responsibility sell herself with her, and by extension, the Cheerios, looks, talent and determination.

She had always known, but never in a million years did she except to be the focus of Sanford Ryerson's attention. No one had mentioned about it, not even Brittany. Or maybe it was yet another well-hidden-but-not-really secret, and Quinn had been extremely aware. Or in denial. Or both.

"Both" might be the right answer.

She bristled just thinking about it.

_Sanford Ryerson_.

Quinn would never forget the day she met  _that man_. It was back in November of 1959, right after Billy Johnson had announced the creation of the Cheerios, a pop girl group who would only sing songs full of love and teenage angst.

"Good morning, ladies," Sanford smoothly said, with that infuriating smirk that would hunt Quinn. "It is an absolute pleasure to meet you."

Rachel was the first to give Sanford a firm handshake and took a step back. Quinn could read the unimpressive glint in the Chicagoan eye, foreshadowing to the tense relationship Rachel and Sanford would have.

Then Brittany greeted and introduced herself before launching into a speech full of compliments —all while grinning so wide that Quinn would see the woman's molars. Brittany wanted the attention on her (for innocent reasons, Quinn would later insist), but Sanford's attention was certainly not on her.

It was on Quinn, and the young singer mentally cringed at the feeling of the man's murky brown eyes on her.

When it was her turn, Quinn didn't hesitate to shake Sanford's hand, despite her first impressions, but she remained cautious. There was just something about  _him—_  Appearance-wise, he seemed relatively normal. Looking like a typical mid-aged man with a slight belly and thin brown hair. He was well-dressed, well-mannered enough, but ambitious to a fault.

Sanford had been with the label since its inception, and wielded so much power that it was a wonder that he wasn't the vice president. Although Sanford' official title was "road manager," he had Billy Johnson unconsciously wrapped around his stubby finger, constantly whispering in ideas—good or bad—into the ears of the secretly-impressionable president.

Quinn would later discover that even if the Cheerios never existed, she would still work with Sanford for he would her personal manager—she would have to cooperate with him, travel with him,  _confide in him_ …

"And where are you from, Sweetheart?" Sanford asked moments later after a short introduction, scanning the woman in front of him from head to toe he liked what he saw. If anyone else noticed his action, no one mentioned it.

"Ohio," Quinn replied.

She was sticking to one-word answers.

Sanford once again scanned the woman from head to toe. "Ah, Ohio…"

Quinn kept her head down for the rest of the meeting.

* * *

Everything changed the Wednesday before Christmas. It had been an unassuming day until the end of Sugar's glass at nine in the evening. Just as the Cheerios began to leave, one by one, Quinn was stopped.

"Stay back a while, won't you?"

Quinn glanced at the exit and sighed. "Sure," she said, dropping her purse onto the table and shrugged off her coat. She down, legs crossed, waiting for Sugar to continue.

"It's a cold night, is it not?" Sugar remarked, heading to her desk. From there, she pulled out a bottle of red wine and a couple of glasses from her bottom desk drawer, and carefully placed on the table.

Quinn raised an eyebrow. "Sure is," she quietly replied.

"Does it get this cold in Ohio?"

"It's worse over there."

Sugar nodded, now pulling out a note from her middle drawer. "How are you liking McKinley?"

"It's wonderful."

"I'm glad," Sugar said. "I know Billy has his way of doing things, but he is truly the best in the game. You, ladies, sure lucked out, especially with having Sanford as your road manager."

Quinn didn't feel the same way, but she remained silent.

"He is a very agreeable man," Sugar told Quinn, finally pouring the liquid into both glasses. She had one to her student, coyly smiling. "Drink some. You have been working far too hard not to have any."

"Thank you, Mrs. Motta."

"Like I was saying, Sanford is a very agreeable man. He may not seem so at face value, but he truly is."

Quinn took a slow sip.

"He thinks the world of you," the teacher continued. "Thinks that you have what it takes to make it on top. He can help you out, you know? He's done it before."

Quinn nodded again; there was not much she could do without making a misstep. It sounded like Sugar was trying to sell Sanford off as a charming man to Quinn. She didn't get it, but then she remembered an old rumor that was floating around McKinley Records that Sugar Motta was known for "setting up" young, pretty women, searching for fame and glory, with older men, usually married, who had some clout in the business.

She brought her eyebrows together and stared into her drink as Sugar continued to sing praises about the road manager. She mulled over Sugar's comments—they perplexed her, the motives unclear. Quinn thought Sanford was an okay guy (perhaps a slight overstatement); that was it.

"Sanford has a crush on you."

Quinn nearly choked on her drink. "Ex-excuse me."

Sugar let out a huff and gave the singer an exasperated look. "Sanford has a  _crush_  on you."

Quinn blinked. She honestly did not know how to respond. She knew Sanford had a little thing for her; goodness, his eyes definitely never lied. But why point this out? He wasn't the only man who had a crush on her.

Quinn blinked, honestly not knowing how to respond. "Um… okay."

"He wants to meet up."

"Meet up?"

"Yes, sometime next week. With you. Next Thursday night," Sugar said, finishing her drink and pouring yet another. "It's nothing. He does this all the time. I can see the hesitance in your eyes, young lady, but it would be in your best interest to just meet him. You never know, he may make you an offer you can't deny."

Quinn sharply sat up her seat.

"What if I don't want to?" Quinn challenged to test the waters. She slightly frowned; she already had plans. It was next Thursday night, and she had promised to go a show on Broadway with Brittany. It would be her first show in an actual theater.

"Why would you not? You're new. You need a little push; he can help you with that," Sugar explained. "This is not an opportunity to miss just because  _you don't want to_.''

* * *

Quinn decided the next day that Sugar's "offer" wasn't something she could afford to "pass up." So, she met with Sanford the following week, that Thursday evening at a hotel not far from the McKinley Building. Sugar had told her that it was his temporary residence until his home in Williamsburg was done renovating.

She didn't tell Rachel or Brittany because they would talk her out of it. She wasn't too worried about the meeting, although she didn't know exactly what to expect. Sugar claimed that it was only about business. So, did Sanford: he wanted to discuss something with Quinn, outside of McKinley Records and its eavesdroppers; it was important, he had said that morning following a studio session. It was to be about her role on the Cheerios.

Quinn's role on the Cheerios was to support Rachel's vocals. It was far from ideal, but Quinn didn't think she was in the position to complain to Billy. Her time would come, she promised.

Later that night, Sanford welcomed Quinn with a warm smile and a small, but pleasant conversation. Then, the road manager proceeded to give Quinn a tour of his large suite which Quinn only accepted out of politeness. The tour ended at the bar where Sanford retrieved two champagne glasses from the cabinet below.

"Champagne?"

"No, thank you. I don't drink," Quinn quietly lied.

"Oh, come on, a little drink won't hurt you."

"I'm fine, thank you," Quinn replied, this time more forcibly.

"You may not know, but I don't conduct business without sharing some liquor."

Quinn eventually relented and took the glass. She forced a smile before taking a sip.

"Now, that wasn't too hard, wasn't it?"

Quinn shook her head. "No."

"Good."

"You said you wanted to discuss my place on the Cheerios?" Quinn said, taking a step back to sit on the love seat. She placed her glass on the marble table next to her and watched Sanford as he sat down across her, leaning forward, staring straight into her green, smirking.

Sanford soon released a dark chuckle dark chuckle and stood back up. Quinn stiffened as he walked around her, finally stopping behind her. "Have I ever told you that you are truly a stunning woman?"

Quinn glanced at her empty glass and wished she had asked for more. She thought about standing up and demanding Sanford to talk about her and the Cheerios. But she couldn't move; after all, Sugar had a point. The man had power; he could honestly make and break her.

"What do you want?" she asked without thinking.

"I want to make you a star."

Quinn's body tensed up as Sanford ran a finger along her neck, across her shoulder and down her arm.

"Mr. Ryerson…"

"No, call me Sanford and don't worry, darling, I'm going to take care of you."

Deep in her heart, Quinn wanted to reject Sanford' advances. She wanted to say "No." She wanted to run out of this room and head home— or to Puck's. Yes, Puck's. He would be there for her. He would wrap her with his arms and tell her that everything would be okay.

* * *

She wanted to throw up.

Never in her life had she ever felt so disgusted with herself. With Sanford. With everything.

She didn't go to Puck's. She knew she was hosting a private get-together in his apartment with producers from other major labels. She didn't want to disrupt his night; she didn't want to make a scene.

Instead, she took the subway to Brooklyn, walked four blocks along Atlantic Ave, trudged up three flights stairs and rang the doorbell.

* * *

She was pleasantly surprised and relieved when the door opened.

"Quinn?"

Quinn froze. She had devised a planned statement during her trek to the apartment building, but it appeared right at this moment, while standing at Rachel's front door that her mind went blank. Eventually, she cleared her throat, opened her mouth and then shut up. A few seconds past before she finally spoke up. "Can I stay the night?"

Rachel took a step back and blinked. Evidently supposed. " _What_...?" she breathed. "But-" she stopped when she noticed the desperation in Quinn's eyes. Her surprise was replaced by empathy, as she further opened the door, stepping aside. "Come right on in," she said. "You can definitely stay over."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

An hour later, over a cup of tea and apple pie, Rachel asked Quin if she wanted to talk.

Quinn said she didn't.

Rachel wouldn't ask again.

* * *

It wasn't mentioned until one year later, during the Cheerios' first European tour where Quinn was "encouraged" to sit next to Sanford on every single flight and car ride. Just to keep the lone man company—Billy had insisted it.

She never told anyone because she frankly didn't see the point. Who was going to believe her? She was a young woman searching for fame in foreign land.  _Shit happened_.

But that didn't mean the pain went away.

It was there;  _it was always there_. At times, dormant under her skin, forever present in her heart and mind. She remembered every time she was near Sanford. She remembered every time she felt his eyes on her when she was in the studio or on stage.

He made her want to crawl out of her body and hide, but Quinn bottled up everything. Speaking or lashing out wasn't going to help her in any shape or form. It wasn't going to bring her fame; all it would do was burn bridges with very important people and ship her all the way back to Ohio— she couldn't let that happened. She had sacrificed far too much to go back.

For the next couple of years, she would constantly remind herself that she would be fine; she would eventually forget about that night. She would eventually forgive Sanford and learn how to be comfortable around him. She would be fine.

But that pain was still there, and she was worried that it would ruin her and her career. She needed to forget about it. She needed to mental and physical pain to go away, even for a little while. She needed to sleep at night.

Then she discovered barbiturates.

Such beautiful, lovely, pills.


	5. Starlight

From the moment the Cheerios became official, the ladies found themselves working around the clock, seven days a week. If they weren't in the studio, they were meeting up with the performance coach, vocal coach, producers, the trainers, and the stylists. And if they weren't with them, the Cheerios were taking grueling etiquette classes with Sugar Motta.

Sugar Motta was a former finishing school teacher from Philadelphia, and her sole responsibility was to polish the behavior and the mannerism of the musical acts. She essentially ran an official charm school from a corner room of the tenth floor.

She had picked that location for the view of midtown Manhattan. It was a splendid, glamorous room. She wanted her clients to feel a sense of importance; after all, they were surrounded by skyscrapers full of socialites, millionaires and businessmen. Although Sugar would never be able to prove it with numbers, she thought the view made an impression.

It certainly had made an impression on Quinn the first time she had entered the room back in the early fall of '59. She could remember spending half of the first session with Sugar staring out the window, not believing that she had been in  _New York City_. Not believing that she had actually  _walked_ along those streets. Not believing she had  _lived_ there or months.

Sugar hadn't appreciated Quinn's distraction and called her out about it numerous times. After forcing out an apology, Sugar had returned to instructing her first lesson: posture and walking.

"Heads up high, shoulders and back straight," she had commanded, walking around the trio with a judgmental glint her eye.

In Quinn's opinion, Sugar would always be a major pain her ass without a personality, but she had always known what she was doing. She would be ruthlessly critical of the Cheerios' mannerisms and speech. Sugar had seemed to favor the more experience Rachel. With Brittany and Quinn, she would go after them for different reasons: Brittany for her too carefree personality and brain-to-mouth filter; Quinn, although she walked with grace, for her accent.

"You sure are pretty," Sugar had remarked during her second session with the girl group. She had scanned the woman from head to toe with an approving nod, "Gorgeous, really."

Quinn had given the teacher a bashful smile. "Thank you."

"But you talk like were you were raised on a farm."

But she did, Quinn couldn't help but thought. She could hear Rachel and Brittany snorting in the background- of course, Quinn had an accent, but she didn't think it was  _that_ bad. She never thought it would matter much, it wasn't like she was going to be an actress. It wasn't like audience  _needed_ to hear her have a conversation. Actually, there were some, such as Puck, who founded her twang to be adorable.

"I don't care for how you speak in private," Sugar had said. "But in public, in front of the press, you will speak like a proper lady. I do not want to hear: gonna wanna, ain't or whatnot from you. Understand, Miss Fabray?"

Quinn had been admittedly offended but held her tongue. Instead, she had forced a smile and said, "Yes, I perfectly understand."

"Good."

* * *

The Cheerios' first single,  _Marmalade_ , was finished and released right before Christmas of 1959. It was a love song with a holiday feel. If the lyrics were different, it could have been a justifiable Christmas song. It was an old-timer song, with a melody and tone that would have been ideal for the late forties.

Billy, being old-fashioned himself, simply loved the song. Puck was indifferent to it, and Sanford thought the ladies sounded too old. But Billy liked it and therefore, it meant that it had to be released.

The reception to the song, just Puck had predicted, was lukewarm. The Cheerios had simply sounded like every girl group in the country. But that didn't mean, it didn't hit the chart— _Marmalade_  opened on the Billboard Hot 100 at spot #92. It wasn't the best place— far from it—but at least, the Cheerios were actually on it.

After some intense persuasion on both Puck and Sanford's part, in February 1960, Billy finally agreed to allow the Cheerios to shift away from slow, love ballads to something more upbeat. Something that would attract the younger audience.

 _It's 1960_ , Puck would tell his boss. The new decade practically screamed for more rock n' roll. People were open to being introduced to new genres, sounds and more animated performances. The Cheerios weren't teenagers of the 1950's anymore. They were women, and they needed attitude.

But Billy reminded Puck didn't want the Cheerios to be the bad girls of the music industry. They were called the Cheerios, for heaven's sake— there was nothing bad about that.

Thankfully, for all parties involved, Puck and Billy eventually made a truce, and not long after that, the Cheerios to work on their second single.

 _Heartbreak_  was released in February. It opened at fifteen and in the upcoming weeks, it would break the Top 20 list, sitting at number fourteen. Fourteen was respectable, but it wasn't what anyone wanted.

In the same month, the Cheerios released their third single,  _Lovely Night_ , and in the following month, their forth,  _Merry-Go-Round_ ; both singles had great reception but failed to chart at a spot higher than number ten.

By April, Sanford was getting antsy. He had created the Cheerios with hopes that the talented and beautiful trio would mass-produce number one's. Billy understood his frustration, but even he had to remind the man that the group had only been formed that past November. Considering their short tenure, the Cheerios were doing okay, but there was one thing for certain: they had to generate positive press. They had to find a way for the public and the media to crave the Cheerios. They had to invest in the help of Spencer Porter and his crew.

Spencer Porter was McKinley's head publicist and occasional lawyer. And miracle worker. He knew everything about everyone and had many connections with the press. Spencer told his boss that the solution was simple: get the Cheerios on stage.

Billy agreed, and before the Cheerios knew it, it was May and they were standing backstage of an auditorium inside an Atlantic City Hotel, moments away from opening for the Warblers, one of McKinley Records' oldest acts. The Warblers might still be stuck in the early fifties, but they were charming and still had a loyal following. They were extremely popular in Atlantic City, especially in the casinos, and night clubs that catered to an older crowd.

* * *

"I can't believe this is actually happening," Quinn said, reaching out for a cigarette from her purse. She had smoked more cigarettes in the past month than she had in her entire life in Ohio, but they soothed her.

Damn it, she needed all the soothing she could find right now. She was standing in the front of the mirror of the small dingy dressing room. In less than an hour, the Cheerios were expected to sing their three singles and do it spectacular. She knew this day would come, she was happy the day was finally heard, but—she needed another cigarette.

And a drink.

And more pork rinds.

"Quinn, honey, what did we talk about psyching yourself out?" Brittany said right next to her. She squeezed her shoulder. "Don't psych yourself out, 'kay?"

Quinn silently nodded.

Brittany nodded and returned to putting on her dress, a lavender sleeveless, boat-neck satin dress with a slightly full skirt. After doing so, she dug into her purse and pulled out a flask full of gin.

"Honestly, Brittany. A drink before our first show?" Rachel chided, eyes widened, absolutely horrified.

Brittany shrugged. "It's one just sip. Gotta get some in my system before I freeze on stage. And you don't want that to happen." She handed the flask to Quinn. "It ain't strong."

Quinn thanked her friend and took two gulps. She wiped any leftovers off her lips with a napkin and handed the contained back to Brittany. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Don't mention it."

Quinn, unable to resist the craving, picked up the half-full bag of pork rinds, her absolute weakness, and devoured them. Sheldon Beiste would be horrified, but Sheldon wasn't about to go on stage for the first time.

She, feeling a bit generous, offered both Brittany and Rachel some. Brittany took a couple and thanked her. Rachel shook her remind, politely declined, and reminded Quinn that, "I'm Jewish."

Quinn shrugged and finished it. Right when she was about to throw the bag away, Sanford made a surprise visit to their dressing rooms. Without knocking, much to Rachel's displeasure as she quickly pulled up her nude panty-hose.

Rachel greeted the manager before everyone else and announced that the Cheerios were almost ready to leave. Sanford seemed pleased at the news; after giving the Sunshine yet another rundown of tonight's plan, he sparked a conversation with Rachel about the lineup, only because she was the lead singer, and although no one wanted to admit it, the most important member of the Cheerios.

(In Sanford' opinion, the most important member of the Cheerios was actually standing in front of the mirror, applying a second coat of pink lipstick.)

Quinn avoided Sanford's gaze and continued applying her make up. She really wished he wouldn't look at her like that; he must know how uncomfortable it made her, but then again, he was the type to just not give a rat's ass about her feelings.

"What do you think about Sanford?" she quietly asked Brittany, glancing at Rachel and Sanford at the corner of her eye as they talked at the other side of the room.

Brittany glanced at the duo and shrugged. "Not my favorite guy, but I guess he's alright. Why you ask?"

"No reason," Quinn quickly replied, returning to applying foundation on her cheeks. She placed her make-up down and took a step back. She nodded with approval and reached over for her earrings. She took a brief look at Rachel and Sanford again- it looked like they were just about done with their little conversation.

"Brittany and Quinn, hurry up over there. You're on in fifteen!" Sanford called out before leaving the room.

Rachel slowly closed the door behind the road manager and sighed. "Fifteen minutes," she said quietly. "Fifteen minutes and all's history."

"We'll be fine," Brittany vowed, putting on her matching black heels. "We got this."

"Of course," Quinn agreed, finally feeling confident. "We're gonna be so good out there that the crowd will forget about the Warblers."

Rachel let out a laugh and wide smile— it was a nice look for someone who was serious most of the time. "Yeah, we'll be fine."

* * *

They were fine.

They were more than fine.

After that first night, they were billed to open for the Warblers on the rest of the shows in Atlantic City and left the stage with rave reviews.

The press and audience loved the women's fresh faces and voices and demanded for more material and appearances. Of course, Billy was absolutely thrilled at the positive reception and demanded that the Cheerios produced more singles and become the permanent opening act for the Warblers.

The Cheerios would get their first number one record in the first week of April.

Quinn would always remember that day. She and the Cheerios were standing in the middle of McKinley Building lobby, staring at the daily paper in astonishment. Number one. Their song, their fifth single,  _Baby, I'll be Right There_ , hit number one after spending only a week on the charts.

She almost fainted and Brittany almost cried. Rachel just looked at the chart with a satisfied smirk on her face. She removed the paper from Brittany's trembling hands and declared. "We did it.  _We really did it_."

Quinn pulled both Rachel and Brittany into a tight hug. "Yes, we did."


	6. Them

Quinn hadn't wanted to become a mistress, but it happened.

She began her affair with McKinley Record's hottest producer, Noah Puckerman, during the summer of 1959. By the end of that year, she fully intended to call the whole thing off, citing professional (and moral) obligations as the reason. But as of the spring 1960, she was still intimately involved with the man.

"This is all bad news," Rachel warned as she poured herself into a casual dress following a sold-out June show in Miami, Florida. She tossed her show dress aside and continued, "This isn't going to end well."

Brittany wisely stayed out of the conversation.

Quinn gave Rachel a dirty look while she changed her stage makeup to something more neutral. She knew damn well this was all bad news, but she couldn't help herself. He was everything she wanted, and she wanted to believe he felt the same about her.

But she was no fool. She knew it wasn't sustainable. The press would lose their mind; Sue might literally have a stroke (though to be honest, that might not be a bad thing), and Billy Roche would simply not allow it. The president, she would learn months later, already had the perfect man for her.

And then there was the issue of Puck's marriage.

Quinn, staring through the foggy dressing room mirror, had to snort to herself. This was completely absurd— _Of course_ , Puck had a wife.  _Of course_ , Quinn would end up being the other woman (and hopefully, the  _only one_ ) of a fame music producer. Goodness, she was essentially a walking stereotype of a woman who used her "talents" to get what she wanted.

Puck had tried vehemently, numerous times, to convince Quinn that she was different, that she wasn't like the other aspiring singers. He adored her and wouldn't let anything bad happen to her, he promised. He treated her like a person, never pushing her to do anything she wasn't comfortable doing, always looking out for her best interests. Plus, he had never laid a hand on her or called her vulgar names. She could honestly say that Puck was and would be the only man she truly loved.

Quinn did appreciate the producer's undeniable effort in making this relationship work.

But she was still his mistress.

On the bright side, at least Puck knew how to keep his mouth shut, and at least, Mrs. Puckerman wasn't around enough to bump heads with Quinn. She spent most of her time in Miami or Cuba (before it had been closed off to Americans). From what Quinn heard, the wife, Lauren, could be a hothead, but she was an occasional agreeable woman who knew exactly what she was getting herself into when she married Puck. She knew her husband had his fair share of other girls on the side, and Puck could care less about the men she was with.

"Just don't end up in the papers or pregnant," he had said one morning over breakfast, moments after finding out about Lauren's younger aspiring-actor boyfriend. He was admittedly a bit hurt, but he couldn't say he was too surprised. It was the spring of 1956; he had just spent the last two months in France. Of course, Lauren would find comfort in another, more available man.

"Just don't end up in the papers or get another dame pregnant," Lauren had said. "I'm not trying to have our business in the rumor mill."

The arrangement, an unofficial open-marriage, worked splendidly.

Until it didn't.

Until Quinn found out in August 1960, just days after returning from a tour up and down the east coast, that she was pregnant with her first and only child.

She obviously couldn't keep it. It wasn't rational, given her current lifestyle. It would be disastrous in the eyes of the press, and for sure, Billy would fire her.

It wasn't like she could return to Ohio, even if she wanted to, with a baby in her arms and with no wedding band. Her parents would practically disown her.

* * *

Quinn told Puck one week after discovering the shocking news.

He wasn't too keen about the plan.

"But I have to," Quinn cried, pacing around Puck's apartment in the Lower East Side.

"Quinn..."

Quinn stopped. "What other choice do I have?" she cried, feeling the overwhelming urge to pull out her hair in frustration. "Do you honestly think I can prance around the stage with a big belly? What would the audience think? What would Billy think? He'll fire me with a second thought and send my ass right back to fucking Ohio!"

"Quinn, you know I'm not gonna let that happen—"

"This is gonna happen whether you like it or not," Quinn declared.

Puck ran a hand through his hair and cursed. He couldn't force Quinn to keep their child; it wouldn't be fair to the rising star. And anyway, he couldn't publicly claim the child; he was still married to much more influential woman who would raise Hell at the news.

"Look, but fine. If you're gonna do it, then at least, do it right," Puck decided. "I ain't trying to have you die."

"I have a doctor," Quinn insisted, standing up tall. She glanced at the floor mirror leaning against the wall to her right and stared at her reflection. She smoothed down her dress around her lower torso to make sure her stomach was still flat. It was, but it wouldn't be in a couple of months. "He's reputable. Popular with actresses and socialites—"

" _No_ ," Puck said, rushing to his bed stand. He ripped out a sheet of paper of from a stray note pad and quickly scribbled on it. "Talk to Holly Holliday in PR. Take her advice."

" _What_? Are you crazy? She can't know!"

"You oughta talk to her," Puck pressed on, shoving the paper into Quinn's hand. "She won't say a word. I promise. Trust me; she probably knows more about McKinley's skeletons than the rest of the PR department  _combined_. Including Spencer and he's the one running the damn department."

Quinn begrudgingly looked at the crumpled paper and huffed.

"She's great with the gals," Puck explained, sitting on the bed. "She knows people. Good people. Even better than your doctor. She'll make sure no one finds out. Please,  _for the love of God_ , to go her."

Quinn did.

* * *

Holly would prove to be a godsend.

She knew people who could rectify Quinn's situation at a reasonable price and a promise not to disclose a word. She knew where Quinn could recover comfortably, and she knew how to divert suspicions from everyone except Rachel and Brittany.

Quinn told her bandmates herself. In her opinion, they had every right to know why she (and therefore, they) would be out of commission for about a month.

When Billy asked about it, Holly was the one to tell Spencer to inform the president that Quinn had ruptured her appendix and needed emergency surgery. Billy brought the lie, and although Sue really didn't, Spencer's words actually had more weight than his.

By mid-August, everything had returned back to normal. Relatively speaking. Quinn, although still experiencing abdominal pain, attended every dance, singing and recording session. She didn't miss one show and she worked at her craft harder than ever— even when Rachel and Brittany and Puck insisted that she slowed down.

Quinn couldn't slow down. The pain, she could handle it; all she had to do was take the prescribed morphine, and she would be better than before. In her mind, the McKinley management had been more than lenient with her recovery; returning to the recording studio and the stage was the least she could do.

Retrospectively, she should have taken an extra week or two off. She should have explained to the head of Artist Relations at the time, that she couldn't bear the sixteen-hour work days and singing on the stage every day for two weeks straight without taking the pills. (Or the barbiturates.)

But then again, what good would that have done?

In Quinn's opinion, not a damn thing.

* * *

If Quinn had it her way, she would have never gotten involved with Finn Hudson. She would have left him alone. She wouldn't even touch him with a ten-foot pole.

_Oh, Finn_. If only the two of them had enough courage to tell Billy and Spencer and Holly to shove their wonderful publicity stunt up where the sun didn't shine. Maybe then, they would have both been happy.

At face value, there was nothing wrong with the man. He was the front man of the newly signed, New Jersey-based quartet, New Directions. He was considered a stud. But there was no chemistry between them beyond reluctant friendship. He was no Puck, and plus, Rachel had claimed the man literally the moment she laid eyes on him.

"Isn't he cute?" Rachel cooed, visibly checking Finn out. When he turned around, she quickly did the smile trying and failing to suppress a blush.

Quinn was stunned to see Rachel behaving in such a manner. She never fan-girl'd over anyone, not even Elvis or Frank Sinatra (however, she later learned that Rachel did have a thing for the Beatles, but this would remain a  _massive_  secret, for her career's sake). But Finn—goodness, she honestly might have fainted if she was someone else.

"I think he likes you…" Quinn said in a hushed voice. Of course, she couldn't have possibly known at the time if he did. They had never met and all he did was smile back and wave.

"You think so?" Rachel squeaked.

"I know so."

Rachel seemed satisfied by her statement, and for the first time, Quinn witnessed her friend's olive skin turn red. Honestly, it was adorable, and she, along with Brittany, had to suppress a chuckle to avoid getting scolded at.

Quinn would find out a couple of weeks later that she had been absolutely right. Finn did have a thing for Rachel, and right before attending a recording session with Puck, Rachel announced to Brittany and Quinn that she had a date.

Quinn was happy for Rachel. And for the next month, the two singers were literally all over each other. Brittany thought it was adorable, and Quinn had to remind Rachel way too many times not to shove her tongue down Finn's throat out in public—she was surprised that the press hadn't caught on.

Or Billy.

Or Thomas.

Or maybe they did and decided to throw a wrench to that relationship by creating a little stunt of they own.

* * *

Quinn should have said no.

Finn should have said no.

But they didn't.

If asked, they would admit that they had no one but themselves to blame for the evitable drama that was associated with love-triangles.

" _You cannot be serious_ ," Quinn said to Spencer Porter one chilly Friday afternoon in November. She, along with Finn, was sitting inside the publicist's office for an emergency meeting with Spencer. Quinn had just found out that Billy fully expected her and Finn Hudson to put on a show for the press and the public to generate even  _more_  record sales.

Quinn couldn't believe her ears. What more sales could the Cheerios need? Their singles were dominating the charts. Their concerts were being sold-out, and people knew who they were.

Even New Directions were doing well, and they hadn't been signed to McKinley for even a year.

Finn remained silent as he crushed his cigarette butt into the ashtray and pulled out another one. Judging on the expression on his face and wrinkles on his forehead, the man wasn't too keen about the plan as well.

"Billy thinks it'll be a good idea," Spencer said with a shrug. "It's a fine way to get your name in the papers."

"And what do  _you_  think?" Finn finally asked.

"I think the success of this plan depends entirely on you two." Spencer replied. Admittedly, he wasn't too fond of the idea, but he couldn't bump heads with both Sue and Billy—he didn't have enough clout at the time

"That ain't exactly an answer," Quinn grumbled.

"Sure, it is."

* * *

Quinn met with Holly four days after meeting with Spencer. She hoped the publicist could provide some insight into this mess of a publicity stunt. After all, she was the one who helped Quinn during her "emergency," maybe she could help her with this.

Holly agreed to have a small lunch with the singer at a restaurant in the Financial District, not far from the New York Stock Exchange. It was the first time Quinn had been to a place like this, and wished she was here for a more joyous occasion.

"How are you?" Holly asked, slicing a piece of her grilled chicken.

"I cannot complain."

Holly stopped her knife and glanced up at the singer. "No, how  _are_  you?"

Quinn cleared her throat as she played with her Greek salad. She was getting better, she explained. She was sleeping better, working better, thinking better. The morning sickness and the bloating were things in the past. She was as good as new.

If Holly didn't believe her, she didn't say anything about it. Instead, she gave the singer a half smile. "Good. Very good. I'm glad to hear it. So, I assume you're here because you've heard about the new publicity stunt."

Quinn nodded. "Is this really necessary?"

Holly sighed, asked the waiter passing by for more coffee—light and sweet—and replied, "As an entertainer, your talent alone won't get you to the top. You need good publicity. You need the press to fall in love with you, and in order to do so, you gotta give them what they want."

" _But a fake relationship_?"

"For heaven's sake, lower your voice."

Quinn apologized, looking around the restaurant, hoping and praying that no one was eavesdropping—she lucked out.

"And to answer your question, if Billy deems it necessary, then it is necessary. I know you think this whole plan is a bit tedious, and rest assured, people in show business do this  _all the time_. Especially those with… less than  _agreeable_  views on sexuality. It's not serious. Just go on a couple of dates. Give a kiss or two for the papers, and you'll be good to go."

"But why him?"

"Why not him?"

"You know Rachel has a thing for Finn," Quinn said.

It wasn't exactly a secret at McKinley Records.

"Rachel is nothing but a professional. She'll be fine. As long as you and Finn explain everything to her, she'll be fine."

"Would  _you_  be fine?"

"If I want to stay on Billy's good side, and therefore keep my job, then yes, I would be."

Quinn frowned. "So, I can't say no."

"It wouldn't be the wisest idea," Holly admitted.

* * *

As expected, Rachel didn't take the news well, and Quinn honestly felt bad. It wasn't her intention to ruin Rachel's love life. She wanted the woman to be happy; after all, she was like a friend.

It was just business. It wasn't like she and Finn had any real choice in the manner (she supposed they could have said no, but they were newbies. One wrong move and they could potentially kiss their careers goodbye). And it wasn't like she and Finn were going to fall in love or anything. Quinn had Puck, and Finn had Rachel and it ought to remain that way.

But Rachel wasn't hearing anything of  _that_.

"I can't believe you!"

"Rachel, it wasn't my idea—"

"You should have said no!" Rachel exclaimed, stomping around their small apartment. Brittany was there as well, carefully watching the two women go at it. She didn't want to get involved, but she didn't want the two ladies to start fighting. After all, they were supposed to be in the grand ballroom of a hotel in a few hours for a concert. "He's mine!"

"And you can keep him!" Quinn said, taking a step towards Rachel. "I don't want him!"

"You should have said no!"

"But, Rachel—"

"Oh, come on, Rachel," Brittany finally interjected. "Are we honestly fighting over a man?"

Rachel pointed at Quinn with fury in her eyes. "She started it!"

"Rachel, for the last time, it wasn't my—" Quinn stopped. "Look, Rachel, nothing's gonna happen."

"That what they always say," Rachel cried. "And then the next thing I know, you both are married with each other with kids!"

"Married?" Quinn shook her head. "Oh, no, no, no, it'll never gonna get to that. Rachel, I promise—"

"What's wrong with  _me_?" Rachel whined, looking like she was moments away from bursting into tears. "Why don't they want  _me_?"

Brittany and Quinn shared looks.

Quinn bit her lip. Rachel was right. What was wrong with  _her_? She and Finn looked wonderful together. They were both the lead singers of their respected acts; wouldn't it make sense for them to be the new McKinley Records' power couple? She gulped and approached her hurting friend. "Honey, there's nothing wrong with you. You're perfect. Absolutely perfect."

After some soft coaxing, Rachel finally allowed Brittany to bring her into a tight hug. Rachel tried to fight back her tears, but the moment her head made contact with Brittany's shoulders, the dam broke.

Quinn wanted to cry herself. Her gaze dropped to the wooden floor. This was a mistake, she realized, and there was nothing she could do about it. She and Finn, being such fools, signed a goddamn contract. They couldn't break it; they'd be ruined.  _God damnit_ , she cursed.  _God damn it to Hell_.

* * *

Two pills of morphine, and two pills of barbiturates—that was the combination needed for Quinn to sleep that night. She had to forget about the look on Rachel's face, and the reality that whatever friendship they had between them was more than likely gone.

She needed to sleep, and only then tomorrow, she would become the woman Billy, the publicity department and Sanford wanted to her to be. If they wanted her to be in love with Finn and be featured on the hottest fan magazines, then she would fucking do it.

After all, she wanted to be a star.


	7. Image

Quinn had the talent. She had the looks. She had the personality, but possessing all of those wonderful qualities,  _alone_ , weren't enough to make her a star. Those qualities wouldn't grant her and the Cheerios a spot on the  _American Bandstand_  stage, performing in front of a live audience and those at home in front of their television set.

In the back of Quinn's mind, she had always known that would be the case. There were people all over the world, even in her own backyard, who were admittedly more talented and prettier than her who would never have the opportunity to sniff stardom. They would just live on with their lives and eventually die off with only a few people, if any, knowing their full potential.

If she was going to make it, Quinn needed a dedicated team behind her to help her each step of the way. She needed to make sure that she (and the Cheerios) sampled the best songs. She needed people who would call every disc jockey and vendor in the area and beyond, willing to make an offer. She needed people who could  _and_  would sell her (and the Cheerios') image to the press where the public would eat it all up, fully digest it, and realize just that they had been missing all along.

P.R—Public Relations, the most underrated but important aspect of the entertainment business. Its department, headed by the incredibly reliable and innovative Spencer Porter, would ensure that Quinn Fabray (and the Cheerios) would become a house. That department would be the reason why the girl-group had so many fans—fanatics—who would defend them until their dying breath, who would support them through the purchase of every single released record and show ticket, who would learn every single word of every single song. Fans—fanatics—who would learn every single word and sound to a sing, who would deem them members of their family, people their cared about never truly knew behind the P.R.-created image.

(Quinn would later learn that this kind of devotion brought along a double-edged sword).

To land a spot on the P.R. Department's high-priority list was an uphill battle for any ambitious act. It had nothing to do with talent, and everything to do with marketability. Luckily for Quinn, she was a blond, pretty girl from the Midwest with a decent voice and decent-enough personality. She could appeal to the masses.

Sanford had vouched for her for his own selfish reasons (he had been under the impression that Quinn would obey if her fame was all his doing). Puck had vouched for her obvious reasons. Sugar submitted a quasi-endorsement, claiming that Quinn possessed more of a presence than the other two Sunshine's (which, even in Quinn's opinion, was debatable. Rachel  _ruled_  the stage, and Brittany had an infectious bubbly personality and was a downright sweetheart.)

Quinn was immensely grateful for all of the support. She couldn't believe so many people had so much faith in her. This was wonderful. This was perfect. This could bring her to the pinnacle of success.

This would also attract more problems.

Starting with Finn.

_Oh, Finn_.

The man she couldn't shake off, no manner that much she (was willing to) tried.

It wasn't his fault. He, too, was considered all an All-American guy. He was the most clean-cut (at first) out of all of the New Directions. Even with his personal demons, stemming from his lack of decisiveness and reliance on alcohol, person thought he was the second-coming of some Hollywood actor.

New Directions had potential and managed to attract a devoted fan base after the release of their first two singles— Billy wanted to exploit that. That was the sole motivation behind convincing Spencer to pair Finn up with Quinn. The two, attractive, singers had no (known) romantic attachments to anyone and looked great together. They could certainly help each other out.

Quinn had agreed with the publicity stunt because she was admittedly selfish and couldn't say decline any of Billy's demands. However, five months into the scheme, she began to question everything. She didn't complain to Spencer; she didn't want to sound too ungrateful for his help, so she voiced her concerns to the next best person, Holly Holliday.

* * *

Sadly, Holly was far from empathetic.

"Quinn, it would be in your best interests to stick with the man," the publicist said. "You need all the publicity you can get."

"But our songs are high on the charts," Quinn argued, reaching over for her fourth cup of coffee of the day (it was one two in the afternoon, but she was on a liquid diet). "The spotlight's already on us."

She glanced around at her surroundings and sighed. She was sitting inside Holly's cubicle, away from the other publicists. She shouldn't be here, especially without an appointment, but she was desperate, and Holly seemed to have developed a soft spot for the young woman. She cleared her throat and stared at her coffee- she couldn't explain it, but she felt trapped, and found herself asking for the first time if all of this scheming was worth it.

Or maybe she was just being dramatic? It wouldn't be the first time.

Holly studied the woman in front of her for a moment before nodding. She, too, reached for her coffee, and after taking a sip, she replied, "Yeah, but for how long?" she asked, and then added. "Quinn, darling, if you want to be a star, people have to know who you are. Contrary to what Sanford wants to believe, you're not the lead singer of the Cheerios. You have to attract attention somehow."

"By dating Finn," Quinn flatly said.

"By playing nice," Holly corrected. "Billy can be  _Billy_ , but he's a smart man. He wouldn't have come up with such an idea if he didn't believe it was going to work."

That wasn't what Quinn wanted to hear, but Holly was right. Billy was right. Spencer was right. The stunt, whether Quinn liked it not, worked and it worked spectacularly. The fans loved it. The press couldn't get enough of it. By January 1961, the couple had a permanent spot on numerous gossip and fan magazines. By June of that year, they were labeled the "It couple" of the American music world—

But not everyone loved it. Rachel wasn't too fond of seeing the love of her life flaunting around with another woman (but she still continued to entertain the man). Brittany didn't say much primarily because she found herself in the same situation (she was soon paired with Sam Evans from New Directions, a cute-looking couple, but they were more siblings than lovers). Sanford was bitter, but that was nothing new. And Finn? He was just confused.

Then again, what else was new?

Finn loved Rachel—Quinn knew he did, deep in his heart— but he was dedicated to being Quinn's public lover. At first, it was all just business, but Finn being the emotional man he was, found himself falling for a woman whose feat belonged to a married producer. Finn took his relationship with Quinn more seriously than he contractually needed to. He introduced her to his family- they loved her. Quinn had been his date to many family functions back in New Jersey, including wedding, funerals and confirmations. And it wasn't before long that everyone expected Finn, in the near future, to get down on one knee and for Quinn to say "Yes."

"I'm thinking about getting a nice house. Right on the Jersey Shore. Away from this damn city. With a white picket fence. Nice neighbors. Nice view of the Atlantic. And a couple of kids. Maybe a dog?" Finn nodded with a hopeful smile. "Oh yeah, wouldn't that be nice?"

Quinn looked up from her Vanity Fair magazine, raised an eyebrow, nodded slightly and turned the page to the much more interested story. It was a spread about the latest New York fashion show that she had to miss because of a show in Boston.

She paid no mind to Finn and his lofty plans. She hadn't thought about marriage since high school and she wasn't going to start now. Plus, Billy and Spencer made no inclinations towards that idea, so she considered herself to be in the clear.

She would find out in the summer of 1964 just how wrong she had been— but that was for another story.

* * *

By the fall of 1961, Quinn was tired of being known as "Finn's Girl." She was more of that. She was a member of the hottest girl group in the East Coast. She wanted her own attention. She wanted to be invited to some of the hottest places because she was Quinn Fabray.

She explained this to Spencer one chilly September morning.

Spencer lit up a cigar and leaned back his seat. "Then else do you have to offer?"

Quinn thought for a moment. "My looks."

Spencer raised an eyebrow. "Your looks?"

"My looks," Quinn said with a determined glint in her eye. There was nothing wrong with using that she naturally had. "Even you gotta admit, Porter, that some fellas think I'm a catch."

"Fellas?" Spencer let out a hearty laugh. " _Look at you_ , picking up the lingo. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Hey, I'm trying," Quinn said, letting out a little chuckle. "Anyway, I take real good photos. All I have to is do is stand right in front of the camera, strike a pose and give them what they want."

"Who?"

"The press, of course."

"Ah... I like your determination," Spencer said. He gave her a nod of approval. He loved ambitious clients, made his job significantly easier. "It's refreshing, but it's not enough to attract the fellas. You gotta worry about the ladies, and ladies ain't into bombshells."

"I'm not a bombshell," Quinn insisted. "I'm a girl from a small town in Ohio. It's so small that you can't even find it on a damn map."

Spencer nodded as Quinn continued to speak. He rubbed his chin, taking in Quinn's words, trying to come up with ways to help her image. When Quinn finished, he spoke up, "So, a girl next door image?"

Quinn shook her head. That image was far too overused and overrated. It made her appear innocent and that didn't coincide with that the fact that she was supposedly running around with Finn. "How about Hollywood glamour? But for music?"

Spencer shook his head.

Quinn modified her suggestion. "Hollywood glamour meets suburban wife?"

Spencer blinked. "That's... kinda an oxymoron."

"How so?"

"Suburban wives tend to stay at home. Those Hollywood gals work outside the home. See the problem? But we can focus on glamour, but just not Hollywood or socialite. You're not there yet, but we can start small..."

Then Spencer snapped his fingers and shot up from his chair. "Okay. I got it! How about this: middle-class gal from out west comes to the Big Apple to make it big. But she plays i safe. She's not a riot. She's never seen hanging around the wrong crowd late at night. Only drinks at social events...She's involved with a musician that has a bit of a rep, but it's a standard, safe relationship. Marriage and kids will happen in the near future..."

Quinn cleared her throat. That really didn't sound innovative. "So, I'm just a typical middle-class gal—"

"Lower middle-class," Spencer said and then clapped loudly. "You're Connie Francis!"

Quinn blinked. "But she's not exactly—"

"She is now. Or then." Spencer stopped and shook his head. Moments later, he explained himself. "You're like Connie Francis. But blonde and from Ohio. But bigger and better."

Quinn shrugged. "I like the sound of that.'

"Good." He clapped. "Okay. Now, leave me be." He quickly picked up the phone and dialed a number. "I got some folks to call. You know what you have to do, right?"

Spencer would work with Quinn, but she needed to put forth some effort as well. Nodding, she rose from her seat, gathering her things. "Of course," she said, giving the man a reassuring smile. "I won't let you down, Mr. Porter."

* * *

Quinn took Spencer's words seriously. Soon, with the reluctant help of Sugar Motta, Quinn began to reinvent herself and her image. She began to shift her style to something fresh, but classy. Nothing too risqué.

Although Quinn made the change for herself, she did implore Rachel and Brittany to follow along. After all, they were a group, but the other two members weren't too keen on looking ten years older than they were— Rachel was too simple, and Brittany loved brightness and freedom. However, that didn't mean that Rachel and Brittany didn't try to do the minimal to appease Quinn. None of the ladies dared to walk outside without heels, string of real pearls along their nape of their necks. Their hair had to be impeccably in place and nails needed to be fully manicured and painted at all times. Red was not allowed, and black was only to be worn at cocktail parties and funerals.

Everyone seemed to be going along with the style change except for the newly-appointed show stylist, Kurt Hummel.

Kurt was an interesting man. He was the complete opposite of the vast majority of staff working at McKinley Records. He was loud and proud. His personality and gaudy staff turned many people away (especially with that rumor floating around about Kurt's  _preferences_ ), but Brittany loved him, and Rachel adored him— it didn't take long for the two to become friends with the man.

Quinn couldn't define her relationship with Kurt. They were always cordial towards each other, but that was about it. Oh, and they constantly clashed when it came to show attire.

"I don't understand. What's wrong with wearing a red dress with sequins on stage?" Kurt complained, pacing around his studio, moments away from pulling out his hair in frustration.

Quinn rolled her eyes and explained once again that, "I— we don't want guady. We want class."

"Classy doesn't work on stage," Kurt told the singer for the umpteenth time.

"It worked for Sinatra."

Kurt scoffed. "You ladies ain't Frank Sinatra," Kurt pointed out, shaking his head. "You're a pop girl-group. You're supposed to appeal everyone—old and young, mostly young. Mostly teenagers, and teenagers like bright and glitter and shine and—"

"It'll work," Quinn said. "Anyway, Spencer says it's fine. And if he thinks it's fine, then it's fine."

Kurt threw his hands up in defeat. "Okay, I'm just saying... stay away from the pastel colors and nude tones. Just for the concert. If y'all wanna walk around, dressing like school teachers outside the stage then be my guests."

Quinn rolled her eyes again and snorted. "As if school teachers can afford a string of real pearls..."

At the end of October, The Cheerios were featured with a string of other major acts from McKinley Records and local labels in a sold-out concert in Madison Square Garden (III), not far from Times Square. Housing more than twenty thousand seats, it would be the largest venue the Cheerios ever performed at to date.

The Cheerios arrived at the venue in the mid-afternoon, hours before the evening and were stunned to see so much fanfare and press. Rachel, never a lover of crowds outside of a concert seat, rushed into the hall. Brittany did the same after signing some autographs and giving a couple of heart-struck guys a peck on the cheek. Quinn intended to follow her bandmates, but right at the moment when she was about to step foot in the building, an opportunistic idea came onto her.

Rachel rushed into the hall. Brittany followed behind, after signing some autographs. Quinn intended to do the same, but as she approached the entrance, she paused, and her lazy smile slowly morphed into a smirk.

Holding her head up her, she quickly unbuttoned her wool coat, revealing her navy blue and pastel yellow, straight skirt dress. She disregarded the cold breeze and took a couple of steps back.

Deeply taking a breath, she turned around and sauntered towards the fans and the paparazzi, holding her head up head, occasionally smirking at whoever she passed. She stopped several feet short of the press.

"Can we get a photo?" A photographer, a young man, asked behind a couple of journalists.

The others soon asked for one, too.

Quinn smirked and winked at the photographer. "Alright, but just a few pictures,  _boys_. Have to get inside to give these fans a show."

* * *

"What do you think?"

"Beautiful..." Spencer breathed out as he starred at the front page of the  _City Confidential_ , one of the most important gossip magazines in the country.

Right on the cover was a two-day old picture of Quinn, giving the press her best smile. Her expression and pose were perfect: sultry, but not too much. A cross between Marilyn Monroe and Doris Day. The magazine also provided Quinn a new nickname: The Lovely Miss Quinn.

This was just the image the label needed.

"So, you like it?"

"Like it?" Spencer let out an incredulous laugh. "I fucking love it!"

Quinn had to grin in triumph.

She would be featured in many magazines throughout the fall. She would only be temporarily bumped off at the end of November for one, reason, and one reason only: the death of Marilyn Monroe.


	8. Marilyn

The Cheerios were a trio, made up of three women all hailing from different parts of the United States. Three ladies whose voices blended into a lovely melody. The stars of McKinley Records. But to Quinn, the group had two extra members, though most didn't know it.

 _Morphine and Barbiturates_ : her constant companions for quite some time, through thick and thin. They had never failed her and were always there for her. She named them Barbie and Morpheus, and they were her friends; they belonged to her and only her. It didn't matter what the others thought. They could find their own friends.

Yes, friends.

Not best friends, but friends.

Or maybe only acquaintances.

Because like acquaintances, Quinn really didn't  _need_  Barbie and Morpheus—she told herself every night. She didn't desire them, crave for them,  _lusted_  for them. She wouldn't die for them. She wouldn't risk it all for them.

She wasn't like the other users. She didn't need to institutionalize. She could live without them, if she really wanted to.

She just didn't want to.

Not now.

Not when, out of simply habit, she expected Morpheus to greet her in the morning and night, and Barbie to be her nightly companion (beside Puck or Finn, depending on the day). It was a process; it hadn't done her wrong so far, and if they had, she would immediately stop—

Quinn looked up from her bathroom sink and into the mirror.

Damn, could she be—

She furiously shook her head, turned on the cold water, splashed some in her face and turned the faucet off.

No, she wasn't one of them. She didn't look like  _them_. Her flawless skin didn't reveal one blemish, remaining as soft as ever with not one wrinkle forming around her perfect mouth and sparkling red-free eyes. Her body was still intact. She didn't act like  _them_ ; she didn't dress like  _them_. No one was going to find her hanging around the streets, looking for a fix, asking for ways to pay for a fix.

She was fine. No one would look at her and question her habits. Unless that person was Puck or Rachel, but they didn't count. They worried too much.

Her name was Quinn Fabray, not Marilyn Monroe.

* * *

Puck knew about Barbie and Morpheus. He didn't know how close his girl was to them, but he was well aware of their existence.

He distinctly remembered handing them to Quinn back when she couldn't sleep due to stress and jitters and when she couldn't stand up without bending over in agonizing pain.

But over time, Quinn approved in appearance and in behavior, and by the time it was February 1962, she was living the life. She was  _loving_  the life. Everyone loved her. She was the face of McKinley Records. She was the sunshine that shone bright. So wonderful. So beautiful.

She was just so lovely.

Puck could have sworn that Quinn didn't need Barbie or Morpheus anymore. So, it was to his utmost surprise when one night in March, he saw them again. Two bottles, standing uptight right on the bedside table, next to a glass of water.

Quinn was sitting up in the bed next to them, muttering a small prayer.

Puck considered speaking up, but could only watched as Quinn, with her back still faced to him, reached up to pick up the morphine bottle. He watched her as she opened the bottle, poured out two tablets, threw them in her mouth and washed them down with water.

He watched her as she reached for her second bottle.

"I thought the operation had gone well," Puck quietly said, rising from the bed. He thought about getting out of it, but he didn't want to appear confrontational. Quinn would hate it.

"It did," Quinn whispered, and then added, trying to make a joke. "I'm alive and well, ain't I?"

Puck rolled his eyes. This wasn't a joking matter. "It's been over a year. You should be fine by now. You shouldn't need—"

"Puck, it's almost midnight" she snapped. "We are  _not_  talking about this."

Puck let out a defeated sigh. "Okay, fine. We won't talk about it, but that shit's powerful. You gotta be careful."

He didn't want to pick a fight with her. If she didn't want to talk about it, then there was nothing much else to do with the matter. He could also just tell Billy, but that would be terrible of him. Quinn would never forgive him, and he didn't think he would forgive himself.

(And he would be right. He would never accept the fact that there wasn't much he could do. He wasn't her handler, Spencer would tell him later. Quinn might be his lover, but she wasn't his wife. He had no rights concerning her. There was only so much pull he had. Spencer would be right; he usually was, but that didn't make the producer feel any better.)

"Don't you think I know that?"

She didn't mean to snap at him. She just didn't want him to worry because she truly did care about what he had to say. She feared that eventually should would listen to his words, cave in and suffer in darkness because it would just be easier.

Puck shrugged and lay back down. That was a typical Quinn answer; defensive and all-knowing, leaving no room for a real argument. "I just don't want you to get hooked. I've seen it happen before..."

"Puck, darling, I ain't an addict," Quinn insisted. She leaned over to cup his face. She was smiling down at him; it was a smile that Puck couldn't read. Neither could Quinn. "I can survive without these pills, but sometimes, I just wanna feel good. I just wanna feel like my old self. Is that really so bad?"

Puck couldn't think of an answer, so he didn't give one.

* * *

Rachel and Brittany didn't know much about Barbie and Morpheus.

They didn't know what it was only because of her new friends that she could keep on going.

They didn't know, because Quinn refused to tell them. She knew exactly what they would say; they would put up fight. She would fight back. The group dynamics would change, and then it would completely crumble. Turn to dust.

Quinn didn't want that to happen to the Cheerios, so she was doing everyone a favor by not being honest them.

* * *

Quinn had a friend, Dr. Edison James. A physician with an office out in Scarsdale, an upscale suburb of Westchester. The only one in the medical profession that could make Quinn feel good and sane.

He had been there for her when she was recovering from her "operation."

But he was not married to New York, and by the end of April, he decided to move to out west to Hollywood. He had left her, and with his things, he had also taken along a complete understanding of Quinn's needs. He had no issue giving the woman her most-desired prescription.

Still plagued by insomnia? No issue, here was a prescription of barbiturates. Benzedrine always did the trick.

Still having abdominal pain, sharp menstrual cramps, and foot pain from dancing all night? Absolutely not a problem; here was a prescription of morphine.

Just as long as Quinn worked with him (via money and secrecy), he could work with her.

But now, he was gone, and Quinn needed to find a replacement. Thankfully (or not), she wouldn't have to look far.

Artie Abrams was one of the members of New Directions. Popular with the ladies for reasons beyond his looks, he was a fantastic bass player and songwriter, but he was more known for his side gig than his creativity.

He had a reputation around McKinley, New and his hometown of being the man who would sell "anything." He allegedly had connections with some black-market dealers (but not the mob, he would claim; or some South American cartel— he might be shady, but not suicidal). Just as long as it wasn't weapons (too complicated) or women (way too complicated), he could get it.

Quinn was able to reel him in one day in May, just as he was leaving the McKinley building. At this time, she was approaching her breaking point; her one-week withdrawal had done nothing but make her miserable.

"Hey, do you want to get cup of coffee or something to eat?" She would ask him, sounding as genuine and cheerful as possible.

Artie did a double-take. He and Quinn weren't friends, not even acquaintances. He considered declining. Quinn could see the hesitation in his eyes, but in the end, he didn't say, "No."

Instead, he cocked his head in the direction of a dinner.

Quinn gave him a relieved smile.

* * *

"I need a favor."

Artie licked off the remaining whip cream from his spoon from the hot chocolate he had ordered while Quinn had ordered a cup of coffee—black with no sugar. "Excuse me?"

Quinn leaned over the table with her hands folded beneath her. Her faux-pleasant expression turned serious. "I need help."

Artie blinked. "Dontcha think you should... uh, talk to Finn?"

Quinn let out a frustrated sigh and retreated. Finn would never help her out. Due to a relative's fatal heroin overdose back in '57, he was extremely sensitive about recreational drug use. "I'm afraid he won't be able to help me out."

"But I can?"

"Why else would we be here?"

Artie slightly frowned. "What do you need?"

"Your services."

"Services?"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, Artie, everyone knows that you do on the side for some extra cash."

Artie's eyes grew wide. "You want...?"

"Yes."

Artie stared at his half-finished drink. "I see..." he trailed off. "So, what do you like?"

"Barbie and Morphe—" Quinn stopped and wildly shook her head. "Barbiturates and morphine."

" _You named them_?"

Quinn cut him a glare. "Is that a problem?"

Artie shook his head. It wasn't his business how Quinn felt about her "friends"—this would be a position he would maintain until the very end. "No, not at all."

"My guy moved away."

Artie nodded. "Ah," and then shrugged. Morphine and barbiturates—Quinn knew he could get them without a problem. After all, they were both legal. All he had to do was reach out to some buddies with connections in the medical friend. "I can make an arrangement."

"But I don't want it."

"What?"

"Morphine. It's no longer reliable..."

Artie cleared his throat and nodded, "You want something stronger?"

"Yes..." Quinn breathed. "I don't any to feel anything, got it?"

"Oh, I got it," Artie said, and then added against his better judgement. "I know just the thing. But I gotta warn you, it's powerful. Downright fucking dangerous. But it'll work."

"That's all I care about," Quinn said, defiant. "I can control myself."

Artie finished his hot chocolate. "Heroin."

"Heroin," Quinn repeated. She considered it— she had heard of it. Of course, she had heard of it. She knew some folks back home who used it. It was related to Morphine... Heroin.  _Harold_? Yes; Harold would be the cousin of Morpheus. First cousin; it wouldn't be too bad.

If she could handle Morpheus, she could handle Harold.

* * *

The first time it happened, it came to a surprise.

It was June. Quinn didn't mean to do it. She didn't mean to reach to such a point where she couldn't control her bodily functions. All she wanted was a little fix to help relieve stress after such a long, trying day.

Earlier, the Cheerios were told about another tour up and down the west coast scheduled for next month. The last-minute shows meant that the Cheerios had to spend most of their lives at McKinley Records, working on their dance moves, working on new material, working on manners with Mrs. Motta and getting grilled by the publicity department. It was an exciting time; Quinn loved to travel, and she loved California (she was going to get a beach house out there, right after she purchased a cottage in Scotland), but she wanted to rest. Just have one day or two where she could just stay in her bed and not do anything with her life.

Sanford promised that the day would come after the west coast tour— Quinn was disappointed, but she fully expected it. There was nothing else she could do but hold her head up high and be the best damn performer McKinley Records had ever seen.

Quinn thanked her road manager for the "offer," and went on her way with Brittany following close behind. They were both getting ready for a little dinner party at their place. It had all been Brittany's idea and she would only invite a few friends.

* * *

Around 9:00pm, Quinn began to feel woozy. She announced this to everyone, and after convincing them that she would not collapse, she politely excused herself.

She took her time up the stairs and walked into her bedroom. After softly closing the door, she stayed in front of it, completely silent, listening intently for voices and footsteps. She prayed no one had followed her up; that would only mess up her plans.

Her breathing steadied when the coast was clear.

Great. This was perfect. This was more than perfect.

She turned around, rushed to her side of the bed and pulled out her suitcase from under it. She opened her suitcase, tossed out of some closed and unzipped an inner pocket. She withdrew a flat box and walked into the bathroom.

She closed the door and stared at it, making sure no one made a surprise visit. In the back of her mind, she knew the chances were slim: the door was locked, and Rachel and Brittany were too occupied with everyone downstairs to check up on a woman claiming to be feeling "under the weather."

She carefully placed the bathroom on the edge of the counter closest to the toilet and opened it. Wonderful, everything was there; nothing had been moved.

She pulled out the needle, thanking her lucky stars that she pre-filled it before getting on the bus, and check on a large pill bottle to ensure that the amount of liquid remained the same. It did.

After neatly placing the needle on top of the tissue and taking around a headband that had been recently cut, she removed her blouse and sat on the toilet seat.

Humming a lovely song her mother used to sing to her when she was child, Quinn carefully tied the band around her left upper arm and tightly pulled on one of its ends by her teeth. She reached over to the counter for the needle, placed it on its desirable spot in her inner arm, took a deep breath and pushed.

She softly moaned as the needle pierced deeper into her skin. She breathed deeply as the liquid entered her system. It was always such a wonderful feeling. She could sense all of her pain and tensions drain away, only be replaced by numbness and content.

* * *

The harsh sunrays forced Quinn awake.

She couldn't recall the day or the time. She supposed she had just arisen from a long slumber—the first one in a couple of years. Maybe that was why she felt so groggy; her body wasn't used to this much rest.

She tried sitting up completely but wasn't able to gather enough strength to do so. The farthest she was able to go was a few inches off the bed. And then she soon gave up, falling back on the uncomfortable bed.

She groaned and stared at the cream-colored ceiling.

She didn't know how she got there. The last place she remembered being in was her bathroom, lying on the cool, tile floor, not in a bed.

She blinked and looked to her left. It took her sometime to recognize and accept her surroundings—she was in a hospital.

She was inside a patient room.

She was on a hospital bed.

She closed her eyes and thought hard, hoping to unclog her memory. When nothing came to mind, she opened her eyes, glanced to her right and gasped. Sitting there in the chair was Puck, slumped over with his head on the dead. Fast asleep. He was wearing the same suit he had on during the dinner party.

Quinn held her breath and stared at him. There seemed to be nothing that would be distract her from watching his sleeping form.

Puck would wake up a few minutes later and caught Quinn's eyes on him. He seemed surprised, but relieved. "Glad to see your beautiful eyes again," he whispered, sitting up and stretching out his arms.

Quinn gave Puck a small smile. The compliment was cheesy, but she always had a thing for cheesy compliments dished out by Puck. She tried to sit up again, but the man wouldn't allow her.

"You oughta rest."

"Hi," she croaked. It was then when she realized just how tired and thirsty she was. She requested some water and was relieved when she quickly downed glass of water. She thanked Puck.

"Hi," Puck softy said. He turned around and dragged the chair to the bedside. He said down and reached out of Quinn's hand.

"Why am I here?" she asked.

Puck looked down at her, puzzled. "You don't remember?"

Quinn blinked. "Remember what?"

Puck didn't immediately reply, and when he did about a minute later, he spoke in a voice Quinn had only heard when the man talked about his dead mother. "I suppose you wouldn't…" He crossed his arms. "I suppose you wouldn't—Quinn,  _damn it_ , I thought I had lost you."

Quinn raised a weak eyebrow. _Lost?_ She looked down at her body and couldn't find any broken bones or cuts, so it was obvious that she hadn't been in a serious accident, and no one tried to kill her.

"How long have I been here?"

"Two days. We found you two days ago."

"Found me?"

"Yeah," Puck quietly said. "Found you on the bathroom floor, unconscious and… unconscious."

Quinn directed her attention to the ceiling above her. Puck wasn't being his usual straightforward self. She remained quiet as she tried to bring back her memories. She could only recall being inside the bathroom, reaching for her darling friends, making sure that no one else was in the vicinity—

Her eyes grew wide.  _Did she?_  She shook her head. No. That was impossible. She was better than this. Stronger than this. She had full control. Overdosing was for those who couldn't stop themselves.

She didn't remember ever taking more than she needed to. She only took the morphine when she felt dizzy with pain, and Barbie when her insomnia reared its ugly head.

"Why I am here?" she asked again, growing frustrated.

"It's not my place to say. The doctors couldn't tell me much since I ain't your husband." He leaned over to plant a soft kiss on Quinn's head. "I'll call the nurse. Now, go on and rest."

* * *

She would learn the truth about an hour later.

According to the nurse, she was lucky to be alive.

* * *

According to Sanford, Holly told Billy that Quinn was rushed to the emergency room because of a terrible allergic reaction to a diet pill (the press was told pretty much the same thing). Quinn would never know if Billy had truly bought the excuse. People who didn't know her did. Everyone else, the people who knew the truth, remained quiet.

(Thankfully, the press had been told the Billy story and asked no more questions. Those who didn't pay the excuse were paid off for their silence. Not that it would matter in the long-run, for several weeks later, Marilyn Monroe would be dead. From a barbiturate overdose. Go figure.)

* * *

"Suicide?"

"Accidental overdose," Brittany replied, reading the front-page story. Marilyn was  _everywhere_. "Found dead inside her bathroom by a maid... damn, what a way to go."

Quinn's eyes remained glued to the table mirror, quietly applying makeup, attempting to disregard the other Cheerios' conversation. She didn't want to think much about it. Not when they were expected to be on stage in Phoenix, Arizona, in fifteen minutes.

Rachel snorted and shook her head. "Now,  _you know_  she was murdered."

Quinn and Brittany groaned.

"Oh, goodness, gracious, Rach, this isn't the time for one of your  _theories_ ," Brittany chided, shuddering.

"I just don't get it," Rachel said. "I mean, is it that easy to get addicted? Even when you have it all?"

"You'd be surprised," Brittany said, finally putting aside the paper. "You'd be surprised."

Quinn stopped. Her lipstick remained frozen on her lips. She was staring at both of her friends, unbeknownst to them—and then shook her head. Oh, who was she kidding? She was at the top of her game. She, along with the Cheerios, were selling out concerts left and right. They  _lived_  on the fan magazines.

She'd be fine.

* * *

The first day Quinn returned to McKinley Records, she spent most of it inside Spencer's office. Sanford said it would be for her own good: The Cheerios can work without her. "Just talk to him. Hear what he has to say and then you can come back to work tomorrow," he had told her earlier that day.

Quinn didn't want to see Spencer, but she knew she had no choice. She had been in the hospital for several days. She was sure the press had gotten wind of it and was ready to publish some bullshit story soon. She  _really_  didn't want to see him, but she needed the man. Spencer was the spin-master. He could make her America's Sweetheart again.

"Before we can do anything, you gotta spend some time away from here. Just lay low for a while we appease the press." He sucked his teeth, disappointed. "Look at you: you still look sick. The press can't see that; they may imply some things that may, no, will screw with your image."

Quinn didn't know how to respond—a rare occurrence. Instead, she shifted in her seat and cleared her throat, waiting for the publicist to continue.

He was serious. He didn't have the usual smirk and devious glint in his eyes. Not one cigar was lit. His Bronx drawl was virtually nonexistent. He meant business, and Quinn had to tread around him lightly.

"I know the best place," Spencer said. "One hundred percent confidential, one hundred percent professional. It's a nice place upstate— Northern Westchester. It was a beautiful view, especially in the fall. You go there; stay there for a month and get better."

"Rehab," Quinn quietly said.

"You need a break."

Quinn frowned. A break? That was definitely not what she needed. Not now. Not even the Cheerios were riding on the glorious wave called success. They had songs to create and gigs to perform at. They had photo shoots to do and appearances to make. They had money to make.

"Is there any way out of this?"

"If you want to remain signed to McKinley Records, then no."

Quinn let out a light snort. Oh, Spencer. Being straightforward as usual. "Fine."

* * *

One week after returning to McKinley Records, Holly, on the behalf of the entire PR Department, suggested to Quinn that she ought to allow a professional to "clear her mind" and rid her of "her demons."

It only took Quinn a couple of seconds to understand what the publicist was implying: she needed to see a shrink.

Quinn honestly didn't think it would be a good idea. Back home, in Ohio, she had been taught that going to a therapist was synonymous with going to a mental ward. Going to a shrink meant that she had something wrong with her. That she was sick. She had secrets so deadly that she could only tell a licensed professional. It meant that she was weak, and couldn't handle her problems without throwing money at people who claimed to able to "read" people—

She wasn't crazy. Yes, she had been released from the hospital recently because of her mistakes. But she  _learned_  her lesson.

Holly reminded the singer that one didn't have to be crazy to seek help. She told Quinn that she didn't have to worry about finding a reputable professional for she had found one already. A very good friend.

His name was Dr. Lewis. He was a hotshot therapist, known for having celebrities and socialites as his clients. His main was located right on the coast of Long Island Sound. He had chosen that location for a reason—the scenery. The wonderful, quiet breezy scenery. He also picked his location because it was relatively remote. Relatively remote meant that the paparazzi wouldn't be interested in it.

Quinn's appointment with Dr. Lewis was made for the weekend before July 4th. Quinn seriously considered "rescheduling" it but decided at the last minute that it wouldn't be worth it. Holly (and Spencer) would certainly find out and confront Quinn, accusing the singer of not taking herself or her career or the Cheerios seriously.

* * *

One year and three months. That was how long Quinn would stay cleaned— no more late nights with Barbie. No more sunrises with Morpheus. No more Harold.

Clean.

She refused to be another Marilyn.

The journey was tumultuous, at best. She supposed she had never truly comprehended how much Barbie and Morpheus meant to her until she couldn't have them anymore. The first few weeks were hell. The following wasn't better... but then the loss because easier to deal with, and it wasn't before long when Barbie, Harold and Morpheus became a distant memory, like childhood friends that disappeared over time.

Her doctors were pleased with her progression. So was Spencer. So was Puck. So was everyone else.

For Quinn, her progress brought on mixed emotions. She supposed to should be happy because everyone else was. But Barbie, Harold and Morpheus were always at the back of her mind. No matter how much she tried to forget about them, they had her heart and desires in their grasps. They never went away. They had let simply let her roam free for a short time until they were ready to reel her in.

Quinn had tried to fight it. Goodness, how much she did. But she didn't have the time or the energy. Days and months passed along. Another advance by Sanford. Disappointments and happiness. Another kiss by Billy. Another dopey smile from Finn. Gruesome schedules. Limitless shows. Traveling all over the world. Maintaining perfection. Four packs of smokes a day.

Sometimes she was up. Sometimes she was down. A literal roller coaster that never let up.

By October 1963, she was itching to deviate from the same, old daily schedule. She could see  _them_ : all of the responsibilities that came along with being America's Sweetheart were laid out in front of her. Waiting for her to arrive. But she couldn't move; they were so far out of her grasp.

She glanced over her shoulder, and there they were, standing at the horizon. Barbie and Morpheus, holding hand-in-hand. And it seemed that they had brought along another friend. Someone more enticing and powerful then they would ever be.

Quinn took a step back.

She was tired of fighting.


	9. Selfish

John F Kennedy, the thirty-fifth president of the United States, was shot in Dallas, Texas and declared dead at 1:00pm on November 21, 1963. His alleged killer was a former U.S. Marine Lee Harvey Oswald who would be killed by Jack Ruby not long after. The reason for the assassination had never been definitively established (although rumors would always float around about the mob involvement and/or a communist conspiracy).

Ever since then, countless people would be asked, "Where were you?" If you were old enough to remember the breaking news segment on the radio or on the television, the panic, the swearing in of Lyndon B Johnson and the funeral, you had a story. People would write books about it. Create and direct movies about it. Speak about it. Gush about it. Form conspiracy theories about it— it was a famous, well-thought out topic, and everyone had a story.

Quinn wouldn't talk much about that day and the aftermath, not because he wasn't interested, because she simply didn't have much to day.

It was said, and a bit surreal. She had met the man once, a few months back. The Cheerios had visited the White House following a sold-out show in National Harbor. The visit had consisted only of a quick photo-op to celebrate the group's achievement: a slew of music awards nominations.

And now, he was dead.

Quinn and the Cheerios would be asked for their stories a couple of days later.

On the day of the assassination, the Cheerios were in Dallas, shacked up in their hotel room. They had just returned from a brunch and decided to rest up for a bit instead of being tourists. After all, they did have a show that night, and they were expected to entertain flawlessly a couple of thousand people.

The women were lying on their beds, sipping on lukewarm coffee and smoking cigarettes. Being fully relaxed, and enjoying the sun, Rachel had drawn back the curtains and opened to let some air in.

The radio was on, turned to the CBS news station with Walter Cronkite reporting. None of the ladies were paying much attention to it.

Quinn was in the middle of lighting another cigarette, humming along to a tune when she heard it: _"... from CBS News. In Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennedy's motorcade in downtown Dallas_..."

Quinn released the lighter button and dropped the unlit cigarette. She was silent, along with Rachel and Brittany; all attention was all on the small radio sitting on the desk adjacent to the window.

Quinn slowly emerged from the bed. She must have misheard the radio, but she wanted to make sure. Their hotel was in Dallas, not far from the parade that they had planned to attend but had been too famished and exhausted to do so.

She approached the double windows and opened one a bit. Below, she could see a crowd along the sidewalk and police cars and ambulances racing up and down the street. She took one step and gulped. "This isn't good."

"... _to ring out in the Kennedy motorcade. There is the report in Dallas that the president is dead, but that has not been confirmed_..."

"It hasn't been confirmed," Rachel pointed out.

But despite her insistence, it was growing increasingly clear that the worst had happened. Rachel kept on pacing around the room, rubbing her arms. She eventually stopped to increase the radio volume.

" _From Dallas, Texas... President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time... some 38 minutes ago, Vice President Lyndon Johnson has_..."

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me," Quinn remarked, reaching down for the cigarette; she needed a smoke.

Brittany was crying.

"Give me one," Rachel, generally a non-smoker, demanded. She quickly thanked Quinn. "Well, I'll be damned," she said, shaking her head. "I knew this was going to happen."

Brittany blinked away her tears and stared at her friend. "Wha...?"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "And how would you know?"

"Uh, hello? My feelings, remember?"

Oh right, her feelings. Her visions. Quinn honestly thought the woman was full of it, but in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder.

Rachel had claimed back in January that she had a nightmare about a plane crash in Tennessee, involving a major entertainer, caused by bad weather. And then March came long, and so did the death of Patsy Cline.

Brittany had understandably been freaked out of her mind and demanded that Rachel never talked that her psychic episodes ever again. Quinn had simply told Rachel to shut up before the FBI, or worse, the CIA, went after them.

"Don't you dare talk about that," Quinn warned. "If we get arrested because of your visions, I ain't gonna be happy."

"Look, I'm just saying..."

"Shut up, Rachel!"

Rachel threw her hands up. "Okay, fine. I'll stay quiet."

The Dallas show obviously didn't happen, which Quinn was more annoyed about than upset. Of course, it would be cancelled. The president had just been killed, several blocks from damn venue. The place must be reaming with cops, the press and various alphabet agencies. The Cheerios probably couldn't step foot in that vicinity without being manhandled.

No, Quinn was upset because she felt personally screwed-over by that fool that had been declared the killer: Harvey Lee Oswald— that man was the reason why the Cheerios would lose their commission that night. That man would be the reason why the Cheerios couldn't enjoy their first night of peaceful sleep in months because they had to hop on the next flight out of Dallas because the expected chaos commenced.

"Thank you, Harley Lee Asshole," Quinn bitterly grumbled under her breath as she tossed her show dress and shoes back into her suitcase

Oswald was the reason why none of the press seemed interested in Quinn from the tail end of November 1963 to the early spring of the following year. Everything was going to good for her and then  _he_ had to go ahead and mess it again.

She complained about this to a friend of a friend a couple of weeks later. A self-proclaimed self-help guru who shared Quinn's love for pork rinds and tonic.

"Interesting," Max said, gulping down some of his drink.

Quinn's eyebrows drew together. She certainly didn't like Max' tone. It sounded downright judgmental, and judgmental wasn't what she needed at this time.

She opened her mouth, paused and then closed it. She realized that she didn't have the right to get upset with Dr. Lewis. Of course, he would judge her. She had just expressed her anger at an assassin not because of the assassination of the president but because of the public decreasing attention on  _her_. It was selfish. It was wrong.

"Sorry," she weakly said. "It's just that... I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

Max raised a hand, cutting his unofficial client, and said in a controlled voice. "You're pissed off at that asshole for taking the spotlight off you. It's understandable. You like the praise."

Quinn scoffed. That was an understatement. "I  _crave_  for it," she admitted. "It makes me happy. Knowing that people are interested in me makes me happy."

"Only the praise?"

"The praise. The fame. The money." Quinn's smile grew exponentially. "Everyone knows who I am, and loves me—well, did until Oswald got in the way."

"Well, the Lovely Miss Quinn, let me ensure you that your worries aren't warranted." He continued on before Quinn could protest. "Kennedy is dead, but one of these days, people are gonna stop talking about it ad nauseam. Something else will happen and the front pages will be littered with everything else. Now, I can't promise you that papers like the Times are gonna stop mentioning the man anytime soon. After all, they are a serious and he was the goddamn president. But the fan magazines and the tabloids? Just you wait, they'll move on."

Max, much to Quinn's joy, would be right. By the summer, the entertainment magazines began moving away from the assassination (not completely though).

1964 was poised to be the year of the Cheerios. That was that Billy had declared during a label meeting, hours after the untimely ousting of one Sanford Ryerson and the hiring of Sue Sylvester.

(No one would truly know the purpose behind Sanford's firing, but Quinn would like to hope that the president had gotten word about the man's behavior and had a conscious of some sort).

Unsurprisingly, the Cheerios had experienced a minor slump following the assassination. Entertainment was no longer priority for the press—everything about Kennedy and the CIA and Jackie Kennedy and the Cubans and their Soviet friends and the occasional race riots—but, there was one thing Spencer would depend on and that was the fickleness of the press was fickle. They couldn't focus on one thing forever, especially the tabloids. A new scandal would arise, and Harvey Lee Oswald and Jack Ruby, the assassin's assassin, would fade into the background.

Billy and Spencer had everything planned: a Cheerio media-frenzy. First, they would produce a short film, giving an audience an exclusive access into the life of the Cheerios; everything would be scripted, of course. Nothing would be mentioned about the abuse, the drugs, the alcohol, the ill-devised love triangle. The anti-establishment, liberal views of Brittany. The film would highlight Rachel's determination, Quinn's star power and Brittany's adoring personality.

The film would be released at select theaters in February would moderate success. It wasn't a blockbuster, but it certainly didn't hurt the Cheerios' image. Billy was satisfied enough.

The next step was another tour. The Cheerios had been going on tours off and on for most of their careers. But Billy wanted something bigger; something across the pond. Europe. The UK, Ireland, France, Belgium and Germany. It would be wonderful, especially in the UK where they would be opening for some of the hottest bands (but not the Beatles, never the Beatles- Billy couldn't stand them or the Rolling Stones). Dave Karofsky, the road manager of New Directions, had suggested for the male group to tag along, maybe as an opening act.

The idea hadn't been a bad one; New Directions were gaining traction in the US and Canada, and surprisingly, East Asia (sans China). Billy had seriously considered it; it would have made a wonderful story line, especially with Finn and Quinn. But Sue had lobbied against it, reminding her boss about the " _Year of the Cheerios_." Billy would eventually concede, much to Dave and Emma Pillsbury's, the newly appointed Artist Relations Representative, frustration.

Spencer had also been annoyed at the missed opportunity, but he soon relented, and with Dave, helped organize an international tour for New Directions, this time, up and down the Pacific Coast and Asia. It hadn't taken long for the new tour to be a done deal.

(The Cheerios would later express their disappointment about missing an opportunity to go to another continent not named Europe. But Sue was convinced that the Asian market wasn't for them—whatever that meant.)

For Quinn, the 1964 European tour was just what the doctor had ordered. It provided her the opportunity to reinvent herself.

She was tired of playing the role of the same old, depressed small-town girl, chasing fame and love, only to get burned in the due to naivety and stubbornness. She planned to become the complete embodiment of the Lovely Miss Quinn.

America's Sweetheart.

Quinn stared up at the prized article, _The Lovely Miss Quinn_ , written by Peggy Perkins— such a wonderful, lovely woman; Quinn made a mental note to send the journalist yet another "thank you card, and some flowers.

Daffodils. Bright and yellow with some lilies— Mrs. Perkins deserved them.

It was the night before her flight to Europe, and she was determined as ever. She had it all planned out: the new her.

Nodding, she crushed her cigarette butt in the astray and stared at her reflection through her large table mirror. Tonight, was going to be the start of something new and improved.

She was no longer going to be the bitter one, not to Rachel and Brittany, not to Puck, not to Billy to Spencer. And maybe, even Sue.

She was going to be the woman Spencer and Holly (who had sadly department McKinley in '62, following a disagreement with Billy) had worked their tails off to create. The image in the press and on the billboards and the fan magazines would be the image she would forever live by.

 _The Lovely Miss Quinn_.

America's Sweetheart—the real Quinn Lucy Fabray.

No more facades.

Quinn's face instantly brightened; her small smile transformed into a full-fledged grin. Pearly white teeth and all. Her eyes glistened at the thought of the new her.

She could and would grab onto the reins of fame and steer the vehicle her own way.

Billy would be so proud of her, and she would be proud of herself.

She got this. and she would be proud of herself.

 _She got this_.

Quinn's new and improved mood and mindset carried on throughout the tour. She was eager and excited, more engaging with her bandmates than she ever had been before. She even maintained with Sue.

Everyone had noticed the change, even the press.  _Especially the press_. They couldn't get enough for her.

The tour was a success. Every show was sold out. The Cheerios had even agreed to put on a few encores.

Two and a half months in, Quinn could honestly say she was at her happiest. Sue, the tour was grueling, but she still felt at ease. Maybe it was because she outside of the US? Maybe it was because she was spending much time in Scotland, scouting out for her retirement home?

Everything was going to so well.

Until it wasn't.

In retrospect, it wasn't a big deal. It happened all the time.

But it didn't make it less upsetting to Quinn. Maybe it was innate selfishness and insecurity talking? Maybe it was something else.

It honestly shouldn't have been a big deal...

" _Open up_!"

All three Cheerios, residing in their Glasgow hotel room in their nightgowns, froze at the sound of the loud banging on their door. And then, they all looked at each other, puzzled and worried. It was almost 11:00 at night; everyone should be asleep.

Rachel would be the one to recognize the knocking pattern. She let out a soft snort and rolled her eyes. "Oh, it's just Sue," she said with a dismissive wave. She yawned and then said, "Someone please get that door before the hotel staff pitch a fit."

Quinn would be the closest one to the door, but she didn't want to do the honors. But she soon just opened the damn door, allowing the woman inside.

"Good evening, Sue, we were just getting ready to—" she stopped upon noticing the livid look in the man's eyes. She cleared her throat, glanced back at her friends concerned and wary, and stepped aside. "Come right on in."

The Cheerios didn't utter a sound as Sue stomped inside, fuming, clenching and unclenching her firsts, spitting out every profanity under the sun.

Quin shared a concerned look with Rachel and Brittany, all wondering the same thing: was the tour cancelled? That was the explanation for Sue's behavior.

"Billy, that fool, signed another girl group. A trio. Just like you— looking like the goddamn U.N!"

Quinn blinked. Rachel crossed her eyes and rolled her eyes. Brittany only stared at her road manager.

"Did he now?" Quinn said, eyeing Sue as she kicked her suitcase aside out of frustration. She didn't react when the manager walked right up to the radio and aggressively turned the dial to off.

"Don't antagonize me, Fabray."

Quinn threw her hands up.

"Who is it?" Rachel asked. She was exhausted; all she wanted to do was take a nap, not deal with Sue and her temper.

"The goddamn Troubletones."

"The Troubletones?" Quinn had to laugh. "What kind of name is that?"

"This isn't a laughter matter," Sue growled. "This is a big problem—"

" _For goodness sakes_ , Sue, Billy has the right to do whatever he pleases. If he wants to sign another group, then he will. It's his label," Rachel interjected, disregarding Sue's glare. "This is hardly a big deal."

"No big deal!"

"Such a drama queen," Brittany whispered in Quinn's ear while Sue continued with her rant.

Quinn's only response was an exasperated look… and then she gasped. She was right.  _Sue was absolutely right_. About everything. She could see it.

She might hate many things about the older woman, but they understood each other. They both wanted the same thing, had the same vision, and—

Brittany and Rachel might not see it, but the Troubletones had been signed to McKinley Records because obviously, Billy Johnson didn't consider the Cheerios to be the perfect group. The trio lacked something that wouldn't be able to obtain no matter how hard they tried, and therefore, Billy had no other choice but to sign someone else.

But that simply didn't make any sense. Why would Billy need another girl group if the Cheerios were doing so well? They were selling out venues left and right; they had been nominated for many awards. Heck, they might even bring a Grammy home this year.

Billy had promised them that this would be the year of the Cheerios—

That bastard _._

_That goddamn bastard._

When Sue finally calmed down, she demanded the group's unwavering attention. The signing of the Troubletones wouldn't change a damn thing, she declared. The Cheerios were and would always be on top, and no one, especially not some mixed-race group from the pits of Ohio was going to change that.

Quinn sure hoped so.

For her sake, and Billy's.


	10. Triangle

It wasn't that serious.

Quinn had lost count how many times Brittany had told her this.

Of course, it wasn't a big deal to her. Brittany was perfectly fine with her position on the Cheerios; she was perfectly fine with making friends with everyone  _and_ their mother.

"I still you should be a little nicer to the Troubletones," Brittany said weeks after discovering the signing of the Troubletones. "They haven't done anything wrong."

"We're not here to play nice, Brittany," Quinn reminded her. It was odd that she even had to do so. Earlier, when she first joined McKinley, Brittany had been the one with all the knowledge about making it big; she had been the one giving all of the advice.

Quinn couldn't wrap her mind around the fact that the roles had seemingly changed.

Or maybe it hadn't, and Brittany was still the more knowledgeable person.

"Never mind about the Troubletones, I have to hurry and beautify myself. I'm Finn's date to that music gala in Atlantic City." Quinn took Brittany's hand into hers and gently rubbed it. "You know, you and Sam are still welcomed to come along. I can squeeze in couple of more tickets. It'll be like a double date, just old times."

She added a small smile when she let Brittany go.

Just like old times—goodness, she didn't know how that felt anymore. Just like old times when all four people agreed to Billy's publicity stunt-plan like grinning idiots. It wouldn't be bad, she remembered Sam saying, but Sam had been a newbie at the time. He didn't know any better.

If Quinn was honest with herself, and she seldom was anymore, none of them knew any better.

"Thanks for the offer," Brittany said, only slightly regretful. "But I think I'll pass. I've already promised Rachel that I'd see a show with her, and I'm sure Sam's busy with… things."

Excuses. They were all excuses. Quinn had tried her darnedest to push Sam and Brittany to the right direction to the direction where she and Finn were.

"Well, then…" Quinn said. "Enjoy your play, and please for everyone's sake, do not mention any of this to Rachel. You know how she gets."

A part of her still felt bad about getting in the middle of Rachel and Finn's relationship. She pitied Rachel and her belief that one day Finn would see the light and leave Quinn for her. Ask her to marry her and have babies—that would have been perfect so Rachel. And maybe for Finn, if he had a backbone. He was still Billy's lackey and seemed perfectly okay with it.

It was sad, actually.

"No problem."

Quinn slightly frowned at Brittany's response. See, the problem with Brittany was that she wore her heart on her sleeve, and it was growing more noticeable by the day. Quinn knew that Brittany judged her about Finn-

Quinn pushed the thought of Finn and Rachel aside as she put on one of her favorite dress, a lovely black and white cocktail dress with a boat-neck. Next, she put on her black heels and then retrieved a pearl necklace with a modest diamond pendant.

She ignored her heart's missed beat— it was a gift. From Puck. For her birthday a couple of years back.

"Can you…?"

Brittany reluctantly agreed to assist her with putting on the jewelry; she took the necklace, draped it along Quinn's smooth ivory neck, and proceeded to clasp the tiny ends together.

Quinn watched Brittany's movement through the mirror. She softly ran her fingers along the pearl strand, stopping at the medium-sized diamond in the middle. She loved this necklace. She would wear it every day if she had the choice. She had to give credit where credit was due: if there was one thing the producer was good at besides making women drop their panties in a blink of an eye, it was choosing jewelry.

She wondered if Mrs. Puckerman had something similar—

"Don't you find it a little odd that you're a necklace that was given to you by your former lover on a date with your current lover?"

Quinn stared at Brittany through the mirror, her eyes narrowing with a mix of shock and barely-contained anger. Of course, she would mention  _that_. Brittany almost found the opportunity to mention anything relating to her previous rendezvous with Puck.

"No, not at all," Quinn said, dropping her hands to her lap and folding them tightly. "Why should I? Like Marilyn said: diamonds are a girl's best friend. I should be able to wear them whenever and where I please."

"If you say so…"

Quinn never wanted to ring Brittany's neck so hard.

"And for the record, Puck isn't my ex," Quinn gritted out as she reached for her pearl earrings. She had thought about wearing her precious diamond ones, another gift from the infuriating producer, but then decided that it might be too much. "We had a fling, and it ended. End of story."

"Yes, a fling that lasted for almost two years. He bought you almost a million dollars' worth of jewelry," Brittany reminded Quinn, rolling her eyes. "He was seconds from delivering the divorce papers, for Heaven's sake! You said that you love to have a family with him."

Quinn grabbed Brittany's wrist. "Don't you  _dare_  talk about that ever," she sneered before harshly releasing her friend. "Do you understand me, Brittany Pierce?"

"Yes, Quinn."

* * *

 

It was finally over between her and Puck. It had to be, not with the Finn in the picture.

The press would have a field day for all of the wrong reasons if they found out about America's Sweetheart playing the role of the other woman in Puck's love life. Even if his wife was perfectly okay with the arrangement.

It was fine, Quinn maintained, it wasn't meant to be. The man was still married to her wife, and as far as everyone else was concerned, Quinn was Finn's faithful girlfriend.

It was fine.

* * *

 

By June of 1964, Rachel finally had enough with Finn.

Quinn was proud of her, not because she wanted Finn for herself, but because Rachel finally realized that any relationship with Finn wasn't sustainable. Not if Billy was still running things.

As completely expected, Finn didn't take the news well.

Quinn honestly couldn't understand why Finn had been so mad. He was the only juggling two women at the same time and doing a horrid job in keeping them in motion. If he had truly wanted Rachel, in Quinn's opinion, he would have dropped everything and demand that Billy accept his relationship with the lead singer of the Cheerios—but he didn't.

He was apparently afraid of retribution from Billy. The president had invested much into the seemingly perfect couple that was Quinn and Finn and only divine intervention would make him change his mind.

The press loved them.

The audience loved them.

And in the end, that was all that mattered.

But apparently not to Finn who had allegedly gotten drunk prior to the New Directions show out in Trenton, NJ. Following that debacle, Finn requested a meeting among him, Rachel and Quinn just to "settle" some things. Quinn didn't want to get involved, but eventually agreed only because she was tied of being stuck in a damn love-triangle.

The meeting was held on the rooftop of McKinley Records Building; it was the only place where the singers knew they wouldn't be interrupted or bombarded by the paparazzi. They didn't have much time; they had only twenty minutes before the Cheerios were scheduled for a session with Will Shuester, and New Direction had to prepare for their show out at Coney Island.

"Let's make this quick," Rachel said, impatiently tapping her foot. "We got a song to record."

Quinn couldn't agree more.

"Rachel, you can't do this to me. We belong together and—"

Rachel had to cut Finn off. "Finn, I think it's time that you direct all of your romantic attention to that woman over there," She pointed at Quinn who, crossed-armed, rolled her eyes and huffed.

"But Rachel, it can't be over between us," Finn said, trying to take Rachel's hands into his. His face dropped when Rachel took a step back and shook her head. "Rach, you love me, and I love you. We have to make this work."

"It's not right to be in a relationship with two women at the same time," Rachel explained. "You're supposed to be with Quinn. Now, you can do so without worrying about me being a home-wrecker."

Judging from the look on his face, Finn did not take Rachel's explanation light. He turned to Quinn who remained uncharacteristically quiet; she was usually the one screwing during these discussions. He turned his attention back to Rachel and said, quite annoyed. "So, that's it?"

"Like I had said last week: it's over." Rachel turned to Quinn. "He is no longer my problem," she announced before giving Finn pointed look. She did not shudder at the death glare her now ex-boyfriend had sent her way. She was done with him and at the moment, there was nothing he could do or say that would make a difference. "Quinn, he's all yours. You can deal with him now, alone."

"Thanks," Quinn muttered with no enthusiasm, causing Finn to look even more depressed. Quinn was not bothered; she did not harbor any romantic feelings towards Finn like Rachel; she tried to like him, she really did, but the only thing he could provide for her was more publicity. The public and the media would love her more if she was connected to a high-profile man, and although Finn had his demons (like everyone else), he was still considered a talented heartthrob.

Finn did not even acknowledge Quinn; his attention was solely on Rachel who did not want to give him the time of the day. "Rachel, we belong together. I know I had done some bad things, but I'm better now."

Quinn scoffed. She wouldn't admit to anyone, but she was a bit irked by Finn's reaction to the breakup; she knew he had feelings for Rachel, but she could have sworn that he wanted whatever Billy wanted—to marry Quinn. She frowned as she continued to watch Finn plea to Rachel. The man was lucky that there was no one else present because he clearly was making a complete fool out of himself.

"I'm gonna fix this," Finn promised, getting on his knees much to Rachel's irritation and Quinn's slight yet resigned amusement. "I'm going to talk to Billy directly about this relationship. I'm going to find a way to make him be okay with me being with you."

Quinn frowned, hoping that Rachel did not believe a damn word; he had been declaring that he would talk Billy and Sue out of this arrangement for a while, and Rachel, the fool had believed him. However, much to Quinn's joy, Rachel did not seem to entertain the idea. She shook her head and said, "How many times you have said that, Finn? I'm not going to wait around for you to ask; you had  _two_ years."

"But Rachel—"

Quinn remained quiet during the scuffle. If she was proud of Rachel for finally giving Finn the business and remaining defiant, Quinn didn't show it. She and Rachel had a complicated relationship. They were friends, she supposed, but it when it came to matters concerning McKinley Records and Finn, all bets were off. Quinn knew Rachel resented her being chosen to be with Finn for the publicity, but it wasn't Quinn's fault that Rachel unwisely chose to fall in love with him."

"But nothing, Finn,"

"Are we done?" Quinn asked, ending the intense staring session between her bandmate and her boyfriend. "We had to be in the recording studio in five minutes."

"We're done," Rachel quickly answered, giving Finn another stern look. " _We're done_ ," she repeated before Finn could protest. She gave Quinn one last look before leaving.

"Rachel, I need you—"

"I gotta give it up to you, Finn" Quinn bitterly said. "You  _sure_ know how to make a girl feel wanted."

* * *

The two barbiturates washed down with diluted red wine was the only reason why Quinn slept that night.

It appeared that the guilt was finally eating at her.


	11. No One to Blame

 

By the fall of 1964, Quinn was beginning to despise Finn.

It wasn't Finn, himself, she despised. It was everything he represented: nothing real, all an act. A publicity stunt. A couple of years back, she would have been ecstatic about this opportunity to land on the front page of New York Confidential or even in the society section of the paper.

But now—

What was she going to do? Break up with the man? Find some way to get Puck back while convincing him to divorce Lauren who was, of course, pregnant? That would have been foolish.

She just needed to shut up, suck it up, and be the good celebrity she was born to be.

She would be fine.

In early September, when Finn asked her to after his White Plains show to join him for a late lunch the following day, at one of the hottest restaurants in midtown Manhattan, it took every ounce of her not to say, "No." She wasn't in the mood. But she knew if she had declined the invite, she would be in the center of yet another Finn Hudson temper tantrum—a sight no one, except for the tabloids, wanted to see.

As expected, Finn had been ecstatic.

The so-called date was schedule for four o'clock in the afternoon, but Quinn had arrived fifteen minute earlier out of habit. Standing in front of the restaurant and ignoring curious glances from passerby's, she patiently waited for her date, only smiling at the ladies, not the men, who complimented on her attire. It was nice to hear. Although she had no intentions on enjoying this night out with her "man," she made sure to dress to impress.

It was four fifteen by the time Finn arrived with a bouquet of red roses.  _How cliché_ , Quinn thought, but kept her criticisms to herself. She greeted him pleasantly, just like all girlfriends should and remained silent until Finn commented on her dress. She thanked him, putting on a fake smile—Deep inside, she wanted to scream.

She wanted to slap him. She hit him with her clutch and stomp away.

But instead, she reluctantly took Finn's hand and pushed all negative thoughts aside. When she and Finn entered the restaurant and greeted the host, she had made she sure she appeared that she was glad to by Finn's side; she even giggled at the little comment from the host about marriage.

Marriage—oh how much she hated that word.

It was a nice restaurant but it didn't cater to Quinn's real taste; she had a soft side for diners and hamburgers with a side of cola and fries. If Finn really was insistent on making Quinn happy, he wouldn't have brought her here. Puck wouldn't take her a place like—Quinn shook her head. She wasn't supposed to think about the producer, she had sworn to herself that she wouldn't, but she could never get him out of her head.

This needed to end _. It was over_. She wasn't going to pursue anything with Puck. She was bounded to Finn whether she liked it or not.

Quinn stared at the tableware in front of her, deeply frowning. She couldn't believe she had done this herself. She had always known what her role was, but this was the first time she truly understood what was going on with her life. She knew it was mostly all her fault, no matter what Rachel or Brittany said. She shouldn't have promised Billy that she would do whatever it took to be famous and to have people love her.

She just  _stared_.

Finn tried to do everything in his power to liven up the mood. He told his best jokes and even began talking about the never-ending McKinley gossip, but all of his efforts were clearly in vain. Quinn looked more annoyed than entertained.

The only time Quinn spoke was to order her food, grilled salmon with mashed potatoes and grilled vegetables and  _some_  champagne. Finn had ordered as well.

After the waiter left, the silence returned. Finn couldn't help but be confused; He had never seen her like this before. Quinn was usually adamant about making their relationship seem real to the public. She was usually more into—

"Is there anything you would like to talk about?"

No," Quinn sternly replied, snapping out of her thoughts before taking a sip of her champagne, "I'm going to be surrounded by screaming fans tonight; I've dealt with people wanting to talk to me, wanting to talk at me all day. I want the silence."

Finn couldn't think of a response.

Quinn downed another glass of champagne out of boredom before ordering another one, much to Finn's alarm. This was a complete waste of time; it felt like an awkward first date than an afternoon out with a serious boyfriend. Finn couldn't find anything interesting to talk about and Quinn was not interested enough to spark an interesting conversation.

"Is there a specific reason why we are here?"

Finn was visibly taken aback by Quinn's question, but then looked around the restaurant before resting his eyes on his girlfriend. "Yes, there is," he admitted.

Finn took a deep breath and stood up before going down on one knee. He pulled out a small black box and revealed a diamond ring. Of course, Finn's actions got the attention of everyone in the room. It would be just like Finn for him to do this in public—with Spencer's urging, no doubt.

She wanted to gag.

Quinn knew that this day would come sooner or later; McKinley Records and there newspaper allies had been her relationship with Finn for a while; everyone expected them to be married by the end of the year.

"Quinn, I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Quinn Fabray, will you marry me?"

Quinn stared at the ring. She should shut him down. Say no. Every bone in her body was telling to say no, but they were in a middle of one of the most prestigious restaurants in New York City, surrounded by anticipating patrons—she couldn't so no. Finn would be devastated and his devastation would become national gossip (and she wouldn't hear the end of it from Billy, Sue and Spencer).

"Yes," Quinn quietly said with a small smile. She should have appeared to be more excited, but she was too tired to bring out her acting skills. "Yes, I will marry you."

Quinn wanted to cry but she put on a smile to save face.

She remained quiet when Finn grinned up to her and slipped the ring on her finger as the restaurant erupted in cheers and applause. From the corner of her eye, Quinn could notice a few cameras flashing; the proposal was definitely going to be a top story tomorrow on the entertainment section.

It took a few moments for the cheers and the applause to die down, and just before, an awkward silence returned between the couple. Finn did seem livelier than before but all feelings with excitement quickly disappeared when he realized that Quinn wanted to be anything but inside this restaurant with him.

Finn cursed under his breath. Quinn might have said yes to his proposal, but it was obvious that she hadn't meant it. "Quinn—"

"Can you please ask for the check?" Quinn said, glancing at the wall clock. "I have a show tonight and I have to be at the venue in an hour."

"You could have just said no."

"In front of all of these people?" Quinn scoffed. "You cannot be serious."

"Quinn—"

Finn was interrupted by the presence of the restaurant owner who seemed happier about the engagement than Finn and Quinn combined. "Congratulations, Mr. Hudson and Miss Fabray on your engagement," he said, not even trying to contain his excitement, most likely because the newly obtained bragging nights.

"Thank you very much."

Quinn remained quiet.

"On the behalf of this restaurant, I would like to give you a gift," the owner said before revealing a newly wrapped bottle of wine.

"Thank you."

Quinn only gave the owner a polite smile before examining her new ring. It was beautiful, stunning really. She always had a weakness for pink diamonds.

"I hope you like it," Finn said, hoping to change the mood somehow. Quinn was not excited about the engagement; he figured she wouldn't be but he wished she had the decency to put on a façade that she was happy. "Sugar suggested it."

"Of course, she did," Quinn muttered.

"Do you like it?"

"The diamond's nice." Quinn replied, disinterested. If Finn thought that he was going to have her jump in her arms just because he proposed to her, then he was going to be severely disappointed. She knew he had only done so to appease Billy; why would she get excited about this?

"That's all you have to say?"

"When the waiter comes, make sure you ask for the check."

* * *

"Quinn, we're worried about you."

Quinn frowned, wondering why her friends chose this time— right before they were scheduled to see Sugar-to talk about this. She didn't think she was acting any different than usual; sure, she still wasn't over the whole engagement issue from last night, but she was convinced that she was hiding her feelings about it. She wanted to voice out her opinion but Brittany jumped in before she had the chance.

"Very worried about you. Is everything okay?"

"There is nothing for you to worry about," Quinn insisted. She swore she was okay, though a part of her knew otherwise. She had been clean for about a month—no drugs and limited alcohol consumption. She had even informed Artie that his services were no longer needed before she was going to go cold turkey and get better all by herself.

Although Sue had offered, Quinn refused to go to rehab; doing so would damage her reputation. She had to maintain her wholesome image—no scandals, no drugs, no illicit relationships.

Her friends did not seem convinced.

Brittany was the first to speak, "Quinn, I know you haven't on those for quite some time, but we're worried you, not as a bandmate but as your friends. I'm worried about you—"

"I'm fine."

Rachel jumped in before Brittany could utter a word. "Brittany is right. If there is anything going on please tell us. We're your friends. You're like a sister to us. I know you're tired of us asking but we don't what to have anything happen to you."

Brittany nodded.

"Nothing is going on. Nothing is happening; I'm fine. You know what? I'm so fine that I'm going to live until I'm a hundred,"

Brittany and Rachel were not amused

"Can you at least see someone?"

"I'm not going to see anything. I'm fine," Quinn almost snapped. She didn't understand why her friends couldn't understand she was getting her act together. She was serious. "We're done with this conversation. Now let's go. We have an appointment with Sugar."

She wasn't going to tell them about the engagement until she knew for sure there was no way she could get out of it.

* * *

She was at another fucking party.

She was getting tired of them.

It was nothing much, just the same thing, over and over again.

She was standing near the entrance of Kurt's penthouse, away from the main crowd. Brittany and Rachel was nowhere to be found and it appeared that the Cheerio had not intentions on looking for them— or Finn. She would occasionally greet anyone who walked past, but for the most part she kept to herself. She spent most of her time people-watching or staring at the floor with grimace.

It took her a moment to realize that Puck was heading in her direction. Her frowned deepened; she didn't want to deal with him and she didn't understand why he couldn't just leave her alone.

"Having fun?"

"This ain't my type of party, but it'll have to do."

"There aren't enough naked women running around?" Quinn asked, sarcasm laced in her voice. She gave the producer an annoyed look before finishing her drink. She planned to ask for another.

Puck wasn't amused. "Very funny. What's been up with you? It's not like to chug glasses of champagne like that. Is it because of the Troubletones?"

"I don't care for them."

And she was being honest. Although she did see them as rivals, they didn't bother her. It didn't mean she liked them, but Rachel and Brittany did and it would be an asshole-move to act mean to them. They hadn't directly done anything wrong to her.

She supposed this was what it meant to be "mature."

"Then what is it?"

Quinn wished Puck didn't care as much as he did; she wished he would be more like Finn and act like everything was okay and didn't ask questions. "Nothing."

"No smart comment?" Puck replied in a mock tone. "This is unlike you."

"It's the champagne."

"Champagne doesn't do a damn thing."

"Three glasses do." She raised an eyebrow when she noticed Puck eyeing her drink and frowned. "Don't even think about it," she warned then sighed. "I'm just exhausted. We've been working our asses off like crazy for the past couple of months. I need a break."

"Don't we all?" Puck put on his signature grin when an idea just hit him. "Hey, how about this: let's take a trip somewhere, just you and me. Anywhere you'd like for a few days. I think we all oughta get away from McKinley once a while."

Quinn gave Puck a small smile; she would like that. She soon came to her senses. "You know I can't."

"Why because of Finn?"

"Exactly."

"Don't worry about Finn. We can find a way to end things between you—"

"We can't."

"Why?"

"Because… he asked me to marry him. Last week," Quinn quietly confessed, staring at the floor. She couldn't bring herself to see Puck's reaction. "And I said yes."

She cursed under her breath. She wasn't supposed to tell him; she wasn't supposed to tell anyone. Jake had decided that it announcing at a surprise (semi-public) engagement party would add more shock-value.

Puck couldn't think of a wise thing to say. He had heard rumors (from Rory), but he had chosen not to believe it. Finn was not in the state to become anyone's husbands; he had to reign in his demons first. He took a deep breath and tried not to sound too disappointed, "Well...congratulations to the both of you."

"There's nothing to congratulate," Quinn muttered before snatching another glass of champagne from a waiter's tray. She didn't say thank you. "Just have to do my job."

"I'm sure being pressured into marrying a man you don't love wasn't written into your contract."

Quinn scoffed at Puck's irritated tone. He shouldn't even be this surprised; he was in the business long enough to know that things like this happened all the time. "Who the hell reads contracts anyway?"

"You could've just said no..." Puck quietly said, taking a glance at Finn who was trying to get Rachel's attention. The woman didn't pay him any mind; she was too busy talking to Jesse St. James.  _That_ was the man Quinn was going to marry.

"I could've, but I didn't," She replied, staring down at her drink. "I've accepted my fate and I think it's time for you to do the same."

* * *

The press couldn't get enough of the engagement.

Everyone was talking about it, and Quinn hated every moment of it.

The talk would die down a couple of months later due to the last group of people she would ever consider to be a blessing in disguise: the Troubletones.

They were rocking the charts.

They were going to be a part of the McKinley Tour of 1965, starting in March.

And damn it, Quinn couldn't be happier.

* * *

The Troubletones' first album was completed by November of 1964.

Their album release party did not begin at seven like originally planned; there was apparently an issue with the lighting (a rumor claimed it had to do with some of the staff sharing two bottles of champagne and passing along blunts in the back room, but it was just a "rumor"). Much to the chagrin of the organizers, It started closer to eight; thankfully, there was enough booze (and fully stocked open bars) and appetizers to go around to keep the guests from complaining too much.

The first half the party consisted of introductions, praises and some words on the new album from Billy and his team, Puck and the Troubletones followed by a mini-performance featuring four of the girl group's biggest hits. As expected, the crowd gave the Troubletones an ovation after they finished; a few of Billy's friends even swore to buy tons of albums. The last half of the party was reserved for mingling and networking with the guests with some dancing with music from the Troubletones' album was playing in the background. Everyone appeared to having a good time and some even made some use of the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room (Sugar was glad of this; it had taken her almost an hour to convince Billy to pay for the thing).

In the end, the party was more of an informal meet and greet than anything. The Troubletones didn't have time to chat with their friends or amongst themselves. They spent most of their time speaking to business people and other artists about their music, making sure they were following Sugar's advice, but they did have time to witness Puck unabashedly praise them at one of the bars after he ordered a round of drinks for everyone around him.

Puck raised his glass. " _Here's to a number one album_!"

" _Number one album_!"

Everyone cheered.

* * *

Quinn wasn't enjoying herself.

And it had nothing to do with the Troubletones.

She had managed to escape Rachel, Puck and their mother-hen attitudes and now was standing near the ladies room, with another drink in her hand. She promised herself she wouldn't get drunk—it would make both Rachel and Puck even  _more_  unbearable when they would find out that they had to take her home.

After declining a dance request from a man who claimed to be an Astor, she decided that she was going to remain here until her friends left. She looked to the left and, rolled her eyes and groaned at the sight of the last man she wanted to see approach her. She should walk away. She had made it perfectly clear months ago that she would only speak to the producer when she was in the studio with the other Cheerios', but unfortunately, Puck was a force she couldn't stay away from. It was her own fault, she decided, she would always have a soft spot for the producer, but he didn't have to know that.

Instead, she stood up tall and glared at the producer until he finally caught up to her, flashing that annoying grin of his.

"I finally found you," Puck leaned against the wall next to Quinn. "How're you doing, baby girl?"

Quinn's glare turned into an annoyed stare. She hated pet names, especially from him and Finn. She took a deep breath and said in the most irritated tone she could muster. "I'm not your 'baby girl' anymore." She let out a deep sigh, "What do you want Puck?"

Puck wasn't offended by Quinn's attitude. She always strived to appear like talking to the producer was worse than dealing with Rachel when she ranted about Finn. "Why don't you come and sit by me and Rachel again?" he asked, eyeing the singer's drink. "A lady shouldn't be standing here all alone and plus, we miss your company."

"Well, I don't miss you," Quinn snapped.

Puck winced, hoping it was the alcohol that was speaking. To be honest, he couldn't figure out the exact reason of Quinn's ire towards him. He hadn't done anything wrong; if there was anyone who should be mad, it was him but he wasn't going to talk about that—not now.

The producer reached out for Quinn's drink.

"Don't you dare," Quinn hissed. "It's quite obvious that I don't want you here, so why don't you go back to your babes and left me the hell alone."

"So that's why you're mad," Puck discovered, though he knew the singer would never admit it. It was a pride thing. "Are you still mad about what happened to Anne?"

Anne was a struggling singer. She was signed to McKinley last fall after Artie recommended her to Billy (she was his lover for about two months at the time). She had the voice and she looked decent enough but she had only worked with okay-written and recycled songs. Last month, Puck had promised to put in a good word for her but for an undisclosed price.

"She shouldn't even  _be_  in New York," Quinn acidly replied. She didn't know why she didn't like the woman, she wasn't in her league.

"You're jealous."

Quinn scoffed. "In your dreams."

"I'm only fucking her," Puck explained though from the sharp look sent his way, it didn't make the situation better. "If you're so upset about it, you should've accepted my proposal."

Quinn narrowed her eyes. She couldn't believe the bastard was blaming everything on her. "Oh, that's a new one.  _You_  were going to divorce your pregnant vice?" She snorted. "Puck, you know it was never gonna work out. I'm with Finn—"

"And looked how that turned out." Puck stopped himself and sighed. He didn't want to badmouth his friend. "You don't even like him."

"You don't know that!"

"You two are worse together than Sam and Brittany."

Quinn grumbled, "Whatever." She couldn't think of a better comeback. "And anyway, unlike Rachel, I'm not a fan of being with someone who's already in a relationship—aren't you with that  _Troubletone_?"

"You mean Santana?" Puck let out a dry laugh. "Not my type, pretty I ain't hers either. Oh come on, you know I'm right; if you want me to stop messing with Vanessa, I'll do it. Only if-"

"It's over, Puck."

"Are you serious telling me that you haven't thought of me in your dreams," Puck cooed, taking another step towards the Cheerio. "And I know you've thought about us getting back together."

"We were never together," Quinn sharply reminded him and pushed the producer away. If Puck was really trying to "win" her back, he was doing a terrible job. "And no, I don't see you in my dreams. Actually, I would love to never see you again."

Puck was taken aback by Quinn's reaction. He was used to being on the receiving end of her brashness, but this, this was a side of her he had never seen before and it quite frankly worried him. "Alright... are you going to tell me what's really going on?"

Quinn groaned again. She wished Puck would just leave her in peace. He was always doing this, trying to weave back into her life for his own selfish reasons. "Nothing."

"Something's obviously bothering you. You only act like this when—"

Quinn stared at the producer. She hated how much Puck could see right through her facade with no effort. Not many people could do that, not even Finn and Sue. It was not about Puck or Anne; it about that damn promise she had made to Rachel and Brittany. She had been clean since the summer and it was driving her crazy. Several times, she had been tempted to run to Artie and demand to give her his stash, but unfortunately, the bass player was serious when he had told her he wouldn't be her quasi-dealer anymore. She didn't know what his problem was; if it wasn't for her, he wouldn't be able to sell anything to the top New York socialites.

"The only thing that's bothering me is you," Quinn snapped. "I would appreciate it if you leave me alone. There's nothing else for us to say."

Puck wasn't going to let Quinn off that easy. "Say you don't love me."

"Puck, if you don't—"

"Say it and I'll leave you alone for the rest of the night."

Quinn threw her drink in the garbage can next to her, grabbed Puck by his collar, pulled him down for a quick kiss, instantly pushing him away. " _I hate you_ ," she spat, glaring at the producer like he was a bug on the bottom of her heels before stomping away.

* * *

"Quinn, slow down," Rachel chided as she tried to pry the champagne glass from her friend. The Cheerios had just finished their number and thanks to Brittany running off to Santana, Rachel found herself being a mother hen to Quinn.

"I know what I'm doing,  _Berry_ ," Quinn snapped, temporary gaining possession of her precious champagne as she leaned back onto the bar— yes, she was there yet  _again_. "This is gonna be my last glass," she promised before Rachel took her arm and dragged her back to their table.

"You said that two glasses ago," Rachel reminded her, sitting down and taking Quinn's glass away and handed it to a waiter passing by. She ignored Quinn's sudden look of sadness as she watched her precious drink disappear. Rachel did not want to ruin Quinn's night but this was for her friend's own good. "Quinn, you remember what you promised Dr. Lewis, yes?"

"Of course I do. I told him that I wouldn't get drink," Quinn snorted. "No one gets drunk off of two glasses of champagne."

Rachel signed. Although it was nice to see Quinn loosen up for once, Rachel still needed to monitor her friend's habits. "Quinn, are you hearing yourself?"

"Of course, I'm not deaf—" Quinn stopped as the next act, a non-McKinley all male band, walked on stage and started playing a song Quinn instantly recognized. "I absolutely love this song!" she claimed. She swayed to the beat and began to sing along. " _You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off to you…_ "

Rachel shook her, realizing that Quinn at least tipsy. She stiffened as her friend scooted closer to her, singing to her, using her empty champagne glass as a microphone.

" _I love you baby, and it's quite alright,"_  she sang to Rachel, moving her arms to the sound of the trumpets and the drums. " _I need you baby to warm the long nights, I love you baby, trust me when I say—"_

Rachel blushed as Quinn continued to sing to her on the top of her lungs. She searched around to pick a distraction and avoid being kissed by Quinn. She was relieved when she noticed Puck heading towards her table after planting a kiss on a lady's cheek.

" _Oh pretty baby, now that I've you stay, and let me love you baby, let me love you—"_

"Oh Puck!" Rachel called out, causing Quinn to stop her two-person concert and placed the glass on the table, as far away from her possible. She didn't say anything as Puck flashed them both his Puck-patented smirk and put his arms around her and her friend.

"My two favorite ladies," he said, before ordering a drink. "How're you doing?"


	12. Chapel of Love

"We have placed aside a string of dresses that may fit your taste," The saleswoman announced as she led Quinn and Brittany through the showroom of a high end wedding dress boutique. The middle-aged woman was neatly dressed in her navy dress, her makeup and hair were impeccable, the right set of pearls draped along her nape, walking around the store as she was a valuable customer rather than a representative.

 "All from the best designers from New York, London and Paris."

Quinn nodded as she pulled out a cigarette and a lighter from her pocketbook. She needed a smoke, or a drink. Maybe a Manhattan or a Sidecar.

The singer didn't want to admit it, but she was slightly intimidated by the woman. She reminded her so much of Sue and she had only known the woman for ten minutes. She couldn't even recall her name... Susan, Sarah, Simone...

Yes, her name was Simone.

Quinn eyed Simone as she pulled out the rack of dress. She did look like a Simone; the name carried some kind of elegance to her.

She sat down on the couch white leather couch while Simone finished her preparations. Brittany was by her side (Quinn wouldn't _dare_ invite Rachel along), gaping and clapping at every single dress the saleswoman presented. She obviously was more thrilled about the wedding preparations more than Quinn would ever be.

Quinn simply wasn't in the mood to sit around, looking at a horde of white, laced, chiffon, silk dresses fit for only the biggest of stars of the most popular of socialites. In truth, Quinn did not want to have a society wedding, but she would endure this because this was what she ought to do. Simple as that. She could never just to go City Hall and get a marriage license from there… she supposed she _could_ , But Billy and Sue would throw a fit like Quinn had never seen. Spencer would probably have a stroke and Finn, oh dear, Finn, would probably not know what to do with himself-- a common occurrence, Quinn realized, frowning as she thought about her fiancé.

"Yves Saint Laurent,” Simone informed the bride-to-be as she pulled out one of the most beautiful dresses Quinn had ever laid her eyes on.

"What's the price?" Quinn asked, so much in awe by the beautiful, she didn’t give a damn about the crack in her faux-New York accent.

When the saleswoman told the price, Quinn nearly choke on the cigarette smoke.

"It's a little on the expensive side," Brittany admitted, eyeing the dress with literal hearts in her eyes. "But ideally, you get married once, right? You ought to get the best of the best."

Quinn nodded before requesting to look at another dress. She had tried to reach Brittany’s level of excitement, but couldn’t. In due time, she would be considered Mrs. Finn Hudson. Several weeks ago, she had found herself resigned to her fate, but now, she just hated everything.

* * *

"You could just end everything or simply postpone it indefinitely," Holly told Quinn over some drinks. It was Happy Hour inside a midtown Manhattan hot spot, surrounded by career men, secretaries and some stragglers. No one was paying them much mind, much to Quinn and Holly's relief.

Quinn lifted an eyebrow, completely taken by Holly's words. She distinctly remembered the older woman encouraging her to be with Finn. "You're not serious," she simply said.

"I know what I said before," Holly said. "But I was employed by McKinley. I had to say it; it was my job. I was in P.R., but now,

"You're the road manager for the Troubletones," Quinn pointed out. "How do I know you're not trying to sabotage my career?"

Holly snorted as she tapped off some ash from her cigarette into the ashtray. "Quinn, darling, if I was going to fuck you over, I would've done it years ago."

Quinn couldn't think of a comeback because Holly was absolutely right. She wasn't like most of the people in the business. She told it like it was but in a manner that one knew that came from the heart. Nothing like Sue. No, Sue's words always had a bite to them. No affections were ever behind them.

* * *

"I don't want to think that I hate you or anything," Rachel said, as she finished applying her stage makeup. With Brittany having excused herself to go to the ladies' room, she and Quinn were the only ones in the dressing room. "Because I don't. I just... needed some time."

She couldn't exactly pinpoint why, Quinn felt like crying. Burst into ugly tears that would surely running her made-up face. She didn't know how much she needed to hear those words (or if she had truly deserved them). "I understand," she whispered, and then in a grateful voice, "And thank you."

Rachel seemed relieved, like an entire universe had just lifted off her shoulders (and now, Quinn felt like absolute _shit_ for her past behavior). "Have you started with the wedding preparation?" she asked, actually interested in the topic. "If you need any help, I don't mind. My mother taught me all about event planning."

Quinn lightly chuckled as she put on her heels. "Seems like you've missed your call."

"Nah," Rachel insisted, shaking her head. "Show business is the life for me," she declared, and then shrugged. "Maybe I'm just selfish like that."

Quinn grinned at her bandmate through the foggy mirror. Her first real smile in months. She cursed the day she decided to strain her relationship with Rachel; she didn't deserve not. Especially not after all that time she had been there for Quinn. "We're allowed to be selfish from time to time."

* * *

But Quinn supposed it wasn't healthy to be selfish all the time. Stringing Finn, his fragile heart (and alcohol tolerance), was the

"Why do you want to marry me?" Quinn asked one night over dinner. She had been spending her nights over at her fiancé’s for quite some time. She told herself it would be the wise thing to do, acclimate herself to living with another man. She was expected to do so for the rest of her life.

Finn, not surprisingly, seemed very surprised by the question, but he did give an answer this time instead of simply ignoring it, feigning ignorance or lack of hearing, "Because I love you."

Quinn wanted to snort at the standard answer. He didn't mean it. He didn't mean many things. "Because you love me..." she whispered before taking a sip of her red wine.

She glanced up at her fiancé, eyeing the half-full wine bottle as it could provide an answer to all her problems. She never did have the heart to tell Finn that he was an alcoholic. Not out of fear (she feared no one, not even God, she realized), but out of a convenience. Finn had a stubborn nature about him; he didn't take criticism wrong.

And anyway, Finn wasn't an angry drunk. Just a really sloppy one.

"You can have it," Quinn offered. "Two glasses are enough for me."

Finn muttered a thanks and eagerly poured himself another glass, causing his fiancé to raise an eyebrow. She was slightly concerned, more about his change in behavior. It seemed that her question had left her future husband frazzled.

* * *

"Your engagement is making headlines."

Quinn looked at the headline of the celebrity magazine and slightly frowned. She was supposed to be thrilled about this. Wasn't this what she wanted? Fame? Recognition? Being a star on the stage and in the news? She sighed and handed the magazine to Spencer.

"Should I invite all of the press?"

It was a sarcastic question, but one would never know with Spencer Porter.

"That's your and Finn's decision," Spencer said. "The press will be satisfied either way. Especially with the tour coming up."

Quinn sat up in her seat and blinked. "Tour?"

"Yeah, the tour," Spencer said. "Up and down the east coast. Billy's calling it the McKinley Tour of 1964. Everyone's who's anyone is going to be there— the Cheerios, New Directions, the Warblers and the Troubletones."

"And this tour is supposed to happen _when_?"

"March of next year."

"And we only have a few months to prepare," Quinn spelled out carefully. Tours took time to prepare, especially big one such as this.

Spencer shrugged his shoulders. He didn't appear too concerned, but then again, he wasn't one stage. He didn't have to face the crowd. He didn't have to be on his best one hundred percent of the time. "We have more than enough time."

Quinn was not convinced.

 


	13. Blow

Despite her previous misgivings, Quinn needed this nation-wide tour.

She needed it like she needed air.

She needed to get away from New York, from the McKinley Office Building, Billy Johnson, Sugar Motta— of them.

She needed to get her mind off her engagement. She knew that it would be mentioned throughout the tour, but at least, she would be too focused on shining on the stage to care.

And she needed to be away from Finn. Sure, they would be in the same vicinity, in the same venue, but he would be with New Directions. He could be distracted with them.

"This tour is going to be amazing!" Brittany declared enthusiastically before dragging Quinn into a tight hug.

Usually, Quinn would recoil; she was never a fan of skin-to-skin touching, platonic or otherwise. But this was Brittany, and Brittany was a doll with a good heart—She tapped Brittany's arms. "I'm sure it will be."

"It oughta be," Rachel said, walking into the dressing room. She checked out her hair before carrying on, "This is essentially the most important string of shows of our careers. We gotta make sure we return to the top."

_Returned_. Quinn grimaced at Rachel's words. There wasn't any need for a return or a comeback. Despite Billy's beliefs, the Cheerios were not falling from grace anytime soon.

Despite the fact that the Troubletones were doing better than ever.

But it wouldn't last; Quinn was sure of it.

"You should tell Billy that."

"Billy was only doing his job when he hired the Troubletones," Rachel told Quinn. "And we oughta do ours."

* * *

Quinn wished she was anywhere but inside the dance studio, imitating Mike Chang's quick dance moves in preparation for the upcoming tour. She tried to follow each move to the best of her ability, like how Brittany was doing beside her, but it didn't take her long to accept the fact that she couldn't.

She was tired. She was frustrated. She was antsy, but all she wanted to do was sit down. Down some drinks. Pull her hair out. Scratch the insides of her arms until they bled.

She had been doing good, exceptionally well but the idea of marrying Finn Hudson had messed up everything. She had relapsed the second day of her engagement by consuming some Harold she had put aside for emergencies—no one knew about that. Now, a week later it had seemed that all of her hard work was being erased by the drug use. No one noticed, at least she didn't think so.

Quinn knew she had to get her act together. She had a "surprised" engagement party scheduled for this weekend at an Atlantic City Club; she would be the one running the show since Finn insisted that she would be better at wedding planning they he ever could-- Quinn had wanted to scream at him.

She shook her thoughts away and took a few deep controlled breaths. She barely paid attention to the new set of dance moves designed by Mike for the nationwide McKinley tour. After realizing that she should actually appear like she was working, she mindlessly followed Mike and her band mates' every move

She could only do so for a few minutes before stopping to take another breath. She didn't really understand what was up with her (she didn't want to understand); she was in good shape and good health, these moves should be nothing, but she was aching in pain. She was sweating profusely. Her head was throbbing, her legs felt like jelly and she desperately craved for something to drink.

"Quinn, are you okay?"

Quinn's head snapped up at the question, coming from Brittany who was looking at her concerned, worried. Rachel and Mike had also stopped and turned her attention to Quinn. She remain was silent; she couldn't think what to say. She felt like her brain and her vocal chords both decided to stop functioning for the moment. She felt hot and exhausted.

"I'm fine," Quinn finally croaked, "I'm just—Mr. Chang, is it okay if I go to the ladies' room? I'm feeling a bit hot; I just want to put rinse my face with some cold water."

Rachel and Brittany exchanged glances then stared at their friend, looking like they wanted to object-perhaps for a good reason, but Mike didn't see an issue with Quinn's request. "I don't see why not," the dance instructor said with a shrug.

Quinn quietly thanked Mike, grabbed her purse and rushed out of the studio. She knew Rachel and Brittany worried about her; she saw it in their eyes, but she was going to be just fine. All she needed was a quick fix and she would be able to return to work in no time. She let out a sigh in relief upon noticing she was alone in the ladies' room. She picked her favorite stall, the closest one to the window, entered and locked it.

She quickly pulled out a little velvet box from her purse and placed it on the toilet seat. She hummed a little childhood tune while she arranged everything, took out a needle and sat down on closed toilet bowl. She glanced under the door and grinned after making sure that no one was inside to interrupt her.

Goodness, Harold seemed to always give her what she wanted.

* * *

That was her last fix. It would be the last for the next few months. She was completely amazed about her ability to abandon Harold.

* * *

One of the Warblers had told her about cocaine.

“It ain’t as bad at that crap you’re shooting up,” Hunter said, handing Quinn a small plastic bag, containing the illicit substance. “It’ll make you feel good, and you don’t have to worry about any track marks on your hand.”

“How much?”

Hunter gave her the price. Quinn gave him the money.

“See how it goes.”

* * *

The first time she tried it—it happened in a place where it shouldn’t have. But Quinn had been curious, and she had time before meeting up with the vocal coach and the rest of the Cheerios for yet another vocal session.

The room was currently in was a dressing room specifically reserved for the Cheerios, located on the fourth floor. But Rachel and Brittany were rarely there. It was fine; it worked out well for Quinn.

After closing and locking the door behind her, Quinn pulled out the draw from the desk near the dollar, searched through the empty space and grinned when she found what she was looking for. When she put it on the table, she just took a step back and stared at it. She hadn't opened it in two weeks after promising herself that would stay clean without the interference of others. It was a tall task, but Quinn felt she could overcome it. After all, she was Quinn Fabray, America's Sweetheart— she could do anything.

She took cautious look around the room, debating if she should go through with it. What was inside the box wasn't a secret; Hunter had given it to her (with a massive discount) as some sort of peace offering for that stunt he had pulled last month— a stunt that Quinn did not want to think about again. The Warbler had claimed it was the best blow he could find without breaking the bank.

She thought about rushing to the bathroom and flushing the drug down the toilet—she was supposed to be good— But it was about one hundred dollars' worth of cocaine. Hunter would never forgive her if he found out.

“Only one line,” Quinn vowed to herself. She would only do one line. It couldn’t hurt and it might even last her for a while, long enough to get her throwing the upcoming vocal session with Will Schuester without lashing out.

She quickly got to work. It wouldn't be too long for someone to notice that the door to her sanctuary was locked. After lining up the powder, she pulled out a dollar bill from inside her bra, rolled it up and used it to snipe up the line. She threw her head back as she felt the drug entering her system. It gave her a warm, numb feeling.

* * *

Apparently, it had gone splendidly.

* * *

The McKinley Tour of 1965 was not getting off to a good start.

"I still don't under why we couldn't just take a plane," Quinn complained as she boarded the tour bus. Her nose scrunched up in disgust when she noticed that the bus was a fry cry from the first class planes she was used to. "It's going to take us forever to get to Boston. If we were on a plane, we would've been there in no time."

Quinn ignored the groans coming from everyone behind Rachel and Brittany. She didn't care what anyone thought. She deserved to be traveling in style, not a tour bus full of people she rather not interact with.

The managers sat towards the front of the bus along with Emma. The Cheerios, Kitty and Marley sat behind them. The Warblers took over the middle section followed by the Troubletones and New Directions, well half of them. Artie had requested earlier to sit in the front with Dave for a reason no one bothered to investigate, and Finn took it upon himself to sit next to his new fiancée, Quinn.

"May I please get everyone's attention?" Emma requested as everyone settled down. She waited until the bus was completely silent before continuing, "Good evening, fellow members of the McKinley Records' family. I trust that you all are just as excited as I am about this upcoming tour. As soon as the bus behind us finish loading, we will be on our way to our first destination of the  _McKinley Tour of 1965_ : Boston, Massachusetts..."

Quinn looked around the bus as Emma continued to speak about the tour. She should be thrilled about traveling all over the United States, doing what she did best, but there was a sliver of apprehension floating around. She had a sinking feel that having all of the major acts together on the same tour was a recipe for disaster. She had voiced her fears to Brittany, sitting right behind her.

Brittany assured her that everything would be fine.

Honestly, it didn’t make her feel any better.

"…but in order to make sure this tour goes as smoothly as possible, we have to address some things. As you all may know, this is one of the most anticipated tours of the year," Emma announced, "Every show is sold out, and I'm positive that each venue is going to be swamped with photographers and reporters. We must be on guard and on our best behavior. You know how the reporters are; they will make a story out of anything. Also, the shows in Baltimore, Boston and Norfolk will be at the same hotels we will be staying at. Therefore, we don't have to worry about meeting up after the show. Once the show is over, you can reside in your rooms. If you intend to leave the hotels for any reason, you must notify your managers and get their permission. Are they any questions?"

No one said a word.

"Good. Now, sit back and relax. The tour has officially started."

* * *

"Good afternoon, Quinn."

"It's eleven thirty-five, still morning."

" _Good morning_ , Quinn."

Quinn leaned against her Boston hotel room's door frame, instantly regretting her decision to open the door. She had honestly thought it was Sue who wanted to see her, not the man in front of her. She thought about closing the door on him. Artie was only here for one reason and one reason only. "I don't have heroin, if that's what you want," she said, "I got tired of the needles. The marks they left behind were too noticeable."

"So…" Artie trailed off, glancing at both sides of the hallways to make sure no one was coming or listening to his conversation. "Does this mean you got nothing?"

Quinn let out a defeated sigh, knowing that the chance of Artie disappearing when he needed a fix was slim to none. She stepped aside and gestured Artie enter her room. "Come on in, I have some nose candy."

"Nose candy?" Artie stared at Quinn in disbelief as he walked inside. "Since when do you do cocaine?"

"Since a few weeks ago," Quinn quietly admitted. She sat down on her back and reached for her purse, lying on the small lamp table next to her. "Like I said, I was tired of the needles—don't just stand there. Please sit."

Artie did what he was told. He had an interesting relationship with Quinn. They were cordial to each other, but did not necessarily mean they could call themselves acquaintances. They only interacted during their private recreational drug sessions, which were only held because their band members weren't as upfront of their drug use as them.

"I thought you were gonna stay clean for the tour?"

Quinn glanced up at Artie before searching through her purse. "I tried. I was doing quite well for five days before the withdrawal started becoming unbearable." She confessed. "I needed a fix."

Quinn knew she had promised Sue that would stay clean for the rest of the year, but she couldn't help it. She had an addiction. It made her feel better, a definite stress reliever. It wasn't easier being in her shoes. She was always in the spotlight, always putting on a persona that drove the media wild. If Billy wanted Quinn to be America's sweetheart that Quinn had to have her fix now and then.

She took a small plastic bag out of her purse and placed it on the table. She looked up at Artie who was staring at her in shock, whether it was because he couldn't believe she had so much or had the nerve to bring it along with her to tour, it wasn't known.

"Do you have any straws?"

Artie shook his head and sat down across from Quinn. "No, sorry. I didn't plan on getting high during tour." He glanced at the bag. "Well, at least not high on  _that_."

"You brought some grass with you?"

"Only some. Damn, Quinn, where do you get that stuff from? That has to be at least a hundred dollars' worth of blow."

Quinn shrugged, not fazed by Artie's astonishment. She dug in her purse and pulled out a sheet of paper. She neatly folded it and ripped the page into small pieces. "I have my sources," she said, handing Artie a few pieces. "So, are you going to try this with me or not? I prefer to do it with others."

"Sure, why not? Ain't gonna turn any free blow."

Nothing else was else as Quinn opened the bag and poured some of the drug on the table. She then took her ID out of her wallet and began to separate the drug into eight neat lines. Once she was done, she rolled a piece into a straw and sniffed up a line in one swoop.

"Ever tried smoking this stuff?" Artie asked before copying Quinn's actions. He blinked and sniffed a few times when he was finished. This was the real deal. " _Damn_. This is some good shit."

"I have," Quinn said, rubbing her nose. "But I prefer this method. I don't want to bring a bong with me everywhere I go. Too much of a hassle."

Artie nodded, understanding where the singer he was coming from. After taking a couple of deep breaths, he brought the makeshift straw to his nose and inhaled another line. "Are you ready for tonight's show? The first of the tour? I heard the audience is going to be three thousand strong. I don't know how they plan to fit that many people in a grand ballroom."

"Of course I'm ready," Quinn snapped, clearly offended by Artie's question. "The crowd never scares me."

 


	14. Chapter 14

All the press could talk about was the wedding.

_That wedding._

Quinn felt like a complete fool. A complete tool. A coward—she could have called it all off. Goodness knows, she wanted to so damn bad, but something held her back. Something told her that it would all be worth it.

That she could love Finn Hudson, even if his quirks were growing increasingly irritating to endure. Even with Puck looming around, doing what he did best: making her feel alive, looking after her even though their tryst ended some time ago… She should stop thinking about the producer. There was no future with the man, not with her engaged and him still being married.

“I heard she’s pregnant,” Brittany whispered in her ear as they tried to out-walk the wedding-happy press. They were in Baltimore, hours from their next concert.

Rachel glanced at Quinn, concerned, before pinching Brittany in the arm. “Really,” she chided. “Honestly.”

Quinn appreciated it, but, “Rachel—”

“Ow,” Brittany whined, rubbing her arm, seemingly confusion by her friend’s action. “What? It’s true. I overheard Emma talking to Dave about it.”

“It’s fine,” Quinn told Rachel, hoping the look in her eye conveyed just that. To be completely honest, she had long accepted the fact that she didn’t deserve the woman’s friendship. She quite literally stole her man, true for solely for professional reasons. But still, friends did not do that to friends.

She was a bitch.

Quinn had always thought of herself as being one, but rarely in a negative light. Because if one wanted to survive in this business, one couldn’t be an angel. But now, as she followed Rachel and Brittany into their hotel, after lagging behind for a moment, she realized that—

She should’ve just said no.

“You don’t have to go through this,” Rachel said hours later as the trio got ready for the next show. It would be a big one, sold-out. “I think the press would be happy either way. They love the drama.”

“She has a point,” Brittany added, slipping into her dress. She asked Quinn to help button it up. “Married or not, you’d be in the papers. Spencer should be happy about that.”

“Yeah, sure.”

* * *

“Are you happy?”

Quinn was never able to answer that question, even during the merriest of days. What was happiness exactly? Sure, she supposed she experienced bouts of happiness... but Finn's question implied he was talking about the long-term kind of happiness. Not the type of happiness she felt when she had been offered a contact at McKinley.

“Of course,” she replied, and then asked after a couple bites of her salad, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She didn't think she would ever tell Finn the truth.

“You’ve seen… morose.”

“Morose?” Quinn raised an eyebrow and snorted. Finn was never known for his dictionary words. But she supposed it wouldn’t right to mock her fiancé’s vernacular now. He did seem genuinely concerned for her; something she wasn’t used to seeing from the front man. Instead, she reached out and rested her hands in his. She forced a soft smile and said in her most earnest voice, “I’m fine. Just a bit tired but that’s normal, isn’t it? We’re on tour. Rest isn’t really in the cards until we get back to New York.”

Finn did not believe her; he didn’t even try to mask it. But he didn’t put up a fight—Puck would have, Quinn thought out of the blue, regrettably. He just sighed and took a sip of his cola. “Just as long as you’re okay…”

Quinn nodded and withdrew her hand. “Thank you,” she said, “I am.”

She was goddamn liar.

* * *

Quinn wished she was anywhere but inside the hotel’s impromptu dance studio the day before a major show, imitating Mike Chang's quick dance moves. She tried to follow each move to best of her ability, like how Brittany was doing beside her, but it didn't take her long to realize that she couldn't. She didn't feel like herself and she knew way. She was suffering from a withdrawal like none before. She had been off the drugs for quite a while, but it was driving her insane. It was an odd feeling, thinking that she couldn't take it anymore.

She had been doing good, exceptionally well, in matter of fact, but the idea of marrying Finn Hudson messed up everything.

Quinn knew she had to get her act together. She had another surprise engagement party scheduled for this weekend that she still hadn't prepared for. She had insisted that Finn should be in charge of everything considering that the engagement was his idea, but as expected Finn didn't want to have anything to do with it, claiming that he was too busy— Quinn had wanted to scream at him; she had just as many shows as he did in addition to attending other publicity events; she didn't have time to plan for an engagement party that she didn't even want.

She shook her thoughts away and took a few deep controlled breaths. She barely paid attention to the new set of dance moves designed by Mike for the Cheerios' next show in Philadelphia. After realizing that she should actually appear like she was working, she mindlessly followed Mike and her band mates' every move

She could only do so for a few minutes before stopping to take another breath. She didn't really understand what was up with her (she didn't want to understand); she was in good shape and good health, these moves should be nothing, but she was aching in pain. She was sweating profusely. Her head was throbbing, her legs felt like jelly and she desperately craved for something to drink.

"Quinn, are you okay?"

Quinn's head snapped up at the question—it came from Brittany, concerned and worried. Rachel and Mike had also stopped and turned her attention to Quinn. She remained silent; she couldn't think what to say. She felt like her brain and her vocal chords both decided to stop functioning for the moment. She felt hot and exhausted.

"I'm fine," Quinn finally croaked, "I'm just— Mr. Chang, is it okay if I go to the ladies' room? I'm feeling a bit hot; I just want to put rinse my face with some cold water."

Rachel and Brittany exchanged glances then stared at their friend, looking like they wanted to object-perhaps for a good reason, but Mike didn't see an issue with Quinn's request. "I don't see why not," the dance instructor said with a shrug.

Quinn quietly thanked Mike, grabbed her purse and rushed out of the room. She knew Rachel and Brittany worried about her; she saw it in their eyes, but she was going to be just fine. All she needed was a quick fix and she would be able to return to work in no time.

She carefully shut the door to the ladies’ room, and took a step back, listening out for anyone who might come her way.

The coast was clear.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she let out a sigh in relief upon noticing she was alone in the ladies' room. She picked her favorite stall, the closest one to the window, entered and locked it.

She quickly pulled out a little velvet box from her purse and placed it on the toilet seat. She hummed a little childhood tune while she arranged everything, took out a needle and knelt down in front of the bowl. She glanced under the door and grinned after making sure, once again, that no one was inside to interrupt her.

It had been so long since she had Harold in her grasp, but it felt so easy. Normal. Like she had been doing this for years.

Just one hit. That was all she needed and she could return to the room and dance the afternoon away with her friends. She just needed to calm down, let Harold flow through her veins like he had in the past, and she could toss him aside like a date the night.

Quinn closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She saw her entire life flashed in her mind— All of the bright lights, the fame, the accolades, the money, Puck, Finn, the drugs, the pregnancy, the Troubletones, the fights, Spencer, Billy, the tour, the engagement...

She opened her eyes and looked down at the needle in her hand. Such an old friend. She could always rely on it. It was always ready when she needed it.

The needle was her best friend.

She carefully placed the needle down at the sink, and held out her favorite arm, the left one, palm facing up. She gently ran her fingers along her inner arm, along bumps and faded scars.

She picked up the needle again and pieced her skin, pushing down the top of the instrument. She deeply inhaled. She could feel the soothing, numbing tingling in her veins. All of her pain and struggles dissipating... it was such a wonderful feeling.

She closed her eyes. She could feel her breathing slowing, her heart rate waning... but it felt so good.

She dropped the needle. The needle slipped through her fingers as she staggered back until she bit the wall. Breathing heavily, she slumped against the wall, sliding down until she hit the floor. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids wouldn't move.

They would never move.

* * *

And that was where her story ended. At twenty-six years. Inside Woodlawn Cemetery. Buried six feet under in her finest clothes and signature hairdo. With that article fitted between her folded hands.

A grand tombstone above her, reading:

_Quinn Lucy Fabray_  
1938—1965  
The Lovely Miss Quinn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not usually the kind to write stories with an "unhappy" ending. I'm more of an angst with a happy ending kind of person, but I thought I'd do something different. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it. I planned, eventually, to post more stories in the same universe from the other's perspective, so stay tuned!
> 
> As always, thank you for everything!


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